


This is my game and you better come to play

by sheyrenawyrsabane



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sydney Crosby takes the hockey world by storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-02-12 14:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 94,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12961386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheyrenawyrsabane/pseuds/sheyrenawyrsabane
Summary: In 2002, Sydney Crosby plays hockey at Shattuck St. Mary’s.In 2003, she signs with Dynamo Moscow and begins her professional hockey career.In 2004, there’s a NHL lockout.In 2005, the NHL grudgingly opens its League up to women.They’ll have to do better than that if they want Sydney to play for them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feanor_in_leather_pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants/gifts).



> Title comes from Confidence by Demi Lovato which is both an excellent song and captures the mood of this story perfectly. I wanted an unapologetically badass Sydney Crosby and listening to this song on repeat while writing has been an excellent choice.
> 
> Huge thanks to Fandom Loves Puerto Rico and Feanor_in_leather_pants for helping to bring this story into existence. It was an inkling of an idea that was way down on my to-do list and because of the auction and Feanor's interest, the story is now at the top. 
> 
> I'm beginning to post, because I haven't forgotten about the bid or the story. It's still in-progress, but I'm averaging a chapter a week and I have six chapters in reserve. The plan is to post weekly until I've completed the story and then increase the frequency of chapters. The story is roughly broken up into three parts and if you're here for the romance, there are no Russians for the first few chapters, but they will become a staple of the story. The tags do not lie : )

She’s slashed on the faceoff then again as she breaks away from the defenders to jumpstart a rush. It’s a stinging pain that grows worse as she skates up the ice, the slash lingering long after she’s left the guilty party behind.

She skates in on goal, draws the goalie out then flicks the puck behind him.

She lifts her arms in celebration, a defiant  _ fuck you  _ to every parent in the crowd who boos her and to every player on the ice who glares at her, hate in their eyes. They can slash her and crosscheck her and trip her and she’ll still beat them.

She’s Sydney Crosby, and she won’t let anything stop her.

#

“The Q’s rejected our petition to let you play early,” her dad says.

Sydney eats with her left hand, because there’s a bag of ice on her right. She shovels spoonfuls of peas into her mouth, lukewarm, but she can’t be bothered to reheat them. Her mom and her trainer are now both after her to eat more vegetables and after a week she’s sick of salad. At the end of this week, she’ll be tired of peas. 

Her shoulders slump, disappointed, even though she knew it was a possibility. “Have they seen me play?”

Plenty of leagues and teams have said, “no”, until they see her play and then they’re offering her the first line center job and as many minutes as her conditioning can handle. Doors are closed to her until she opens them, but she’s grown very, very good at opening them.

Almost as good at that as she is at hockey.

“They have,” her dad answers. “They have an age requirement, and they don’t make exceptions.”

_ Even for me _ .

It’s the first time a league has said no to her and meant it. It’s reminder that no matter how good she is, there will be people who have the power to keep her off the ice. For the first time since she put on her dad’s Canadiens jersey and held a plastic Stanley Cup over her head, she wonders if the NHL might keep their doors closed to her too.

Her dad lifts the ice off her hand and frowns at the dark purple bruise there. “This can’t continue.”

They  _ just  _ talked about this. “I have the rest of this season and all of next season before I can play in the Q.” Where is she supposed to go? As long as she stays local, she’ll play against people who hate her. And if they transplant their whole family for her hockey then she’ll only make new enemies. 

“Tom Ward will be at your next tournament. He’s the coach at Shattuck St. Mary’s.”

“That’s in Minnesota.” She’s seen the flyers on the kitchen table. The flyers, not just for Shattuck but other boarding schools, have increased as Syd comes home with more and more obvious bruises She knows her mom’s worried, her dad too. Or maybe her dad didn’t have as much faith in the Q as Sydney did. Maybe he’s been preparing for their “no” for months now.

“Hockey will take you far away from home,” Troy says, “but if you love it then it’s worth it.”

She looks at the bruise blooming on her skin and thinks about all the ones hidden by her clothes. She wakes up with aches and pains and she’s been fortunate that no one’s done her serious harm, but with the hits she takes it’s only a matter of time.

If the Q won’t take her then she needs another option. She can’t stay in this league, and she won’t force her family to move, not when her hockey future is so uncertain. Maybe a move to the States is what she needs. And if the coach will be in the stands then she knows exactly what to do to show him he wants her. 

“I’ll make sure to have a good showing at our tournament, then.”

Her dad pats her shoulder. “We have leftover lasagna or rice and chicken.”

“The meat lasagna from last night?”

She’d demolished almost a quarter of the pan all on her own. Fortunately, her mom’s taken to making two dishes of dinner so there’s enough for that meal and Syd’s late night cravings. What will she do at Shattuck when she’s hungry? Are their dining halls open all the time? Will she have to stash protein bars in her room?

“There’s another two servings left.”

“One for you, one for me?”

Mom took Taylor to gymnastics which means it’s just her and her dad home tonight. Troy reheats the lasagna while Syd finishes the last of her peas. Maybe she’ll try asparagus next week. It’s green and probably good for her. 

#

Sydney always plays hard, but she takes her game to another level for the tournament. She did her research on Shattuck after her dad brought it up. It’s a boarding school with a focus on sports and a history of producing elite athletes.

It’ll challenge her hockey and it’ll give her a new environment. Maybe it’ll be friendlier since she won’t be competing with and against people she’s been fighting for a roster spot and ice time against for years. She knows it won’t take long to make enemies on the other teams; players don’t like being beaten, especially by a girl two years younger than them, but she’s hoping her teammates won’t hate her. 

It’s mostly stupid stuff, the guys pointedly not inviting her to things or teasing her, crueler than locker room chirping. It’s stuff she puts up with because she has more important things to focus on, but she knows she’d play better if she wasn’t wary of the other team  _ and  _ hers. 

Watching Gretzky play, he had teammates who’d stick up for him because he was an elite player. His skills made his teammates protect him, fighting the other team even for skating too close. She doesn’t believe the Gretzky comparisons everyone makes, she has a long way to go before she’s even close to the player he was, but there are some similarities. 

It’s fact, not bragging, to say that she’s always been the best player on her teams. It means her teammates should look out of her. Do they really think they’ll win as many games without her burying the puck or score as many goals without the passes she makes? 

Of course, if she says that then everything will get worse. It’s frustrating but she pins her hopes on Shattuck being better.

And if she wants to make it to Shattuck then she has to prove she deserves to play there.

Coach Ward is in the stands for the quarterfinal. Syd was already motivated to win, because they’re out of round-robin play. It’s win or go home, and she isn’t ready to go home. Coach Ward’s presence motivates her even more. 

She isn’t allowed to talk up her game, but she can show it.

Three minutes into the period, she splits the defense and scores high glove side. The goalie trash talks as he fishes the puck out of his net. 

“Maybe next time there’ll be four of you, and you’ll have a chance at stopping me,” she says.

The bigger d-man steps towards her, looming and  _ pissed _ , and Syd’s teammates swoop in for a belated celly.

“Do you have a death wish?” Tillerson, one of her wingers grumbles.

“We break them then we beat them,” Sydney says.

“Fucking brutal,” Ryder says but he sounds a little impressed.

#

Two shifts later, she outmuscles a kid two years older than her and slings the puck up to Ryder. He’s hooked by the opposing forward and her team goes on the powerplay.

She wins the faceoff then shows off her ability to protect the puck and how she can thread a pass through multiple players and their sticks. She wants to show Coach Ward the full spectrum of her skills so he can make an informed decision.

#

They win 5-3 with two goals and two assists for Sydney on the game.

She listens to her coach break down what they did well and what they need to improve on then they’re sent to shower. She has a separate stall to use with a curtain and everything. Once she’s showered, she changes into jeans and a hoodie. The baseball cap she plops on her head doesn’t disguise her, but she doesn’t look obviously like herself.

She slings her gear bag over her shoulder and slips out of the locker room. The team will do dinner later or hang out and watch a movie, but, even if she’s invited, it won’t be until much later. She stores her gear then tips her hat lower and finds her dad in the stands.

He’s sitting with Brisson, the agent they hired when they realized that she isn’t just good at hockey but  _ good _ . Brisson helped her negotiate her Gatorade deal, and he’s promised to help her with everything else.

“My job is to handle the politics and the business and the finicky stuff,” he told her when they first met. “Your job is to play hockey.”

She knows he has real athletes he represents, people already in the NHL, and she’s not sure how to feel that he’s taking the time to come to her tournament. He’s always believed in her. Sometimes, when she’s feeling uncharitable, she reminds herself that his getting paid depends on her being good. At other times, when it feels like the entire world is against her, it’s nice to know he’s on her side.

“Nice work out there, kid,” he says.

He always calls her that but even if he didn’t, he would right now. Her dad doesn’t call her by name when they’re in crowded rinks like these either. There are too many people who’d take the opportunity to heckle her in person. 

She sits down next to her dad and takes the protein bar he offers her.

“Thank you,” she says, to both of them. “How long are you in town for?”

“A couple days. Dinner tomorrow night?”

“I have the semis the next day,” she answers.

Brisson smiles. “Steak dinner, then?”

She smiles back. “Okay.”

#

She wears one of her game day outfits to dinner, slacks and a nice blouse. The boys wear slacks and dress shirts with ties, but Sydney draws the line at ties. And she refuses to wear skirts.

She hates dressing up, because it means wearing a real bra, but it’s worth it for the nice restaurant they go to. It was weird at first, having Brisson show up to take her and her dad or even her and her dad and her mom to nice places, but apparently it’s part of his job.

They have a reservation and the hostess brings them to a booth in the back of the restaurant where no one will accidentally find them. Sydney slides all the way into the booth and lays her napkin across her lap.

“I had lunch with Tom Ward yesterday,” Brisson says. “Shattuck has a well-deserved reputation as one of the best hockey programs in the country, and they have several tiers of competition.”

“I want to play for the best one,” Sydney says.

“He rarely has sophomores on his top team, but he says you have the skill for it. There’s another sophomore he’s recruiting, an American. There’s a high collegiate recruiting rate from Shattuck, and they have a respectable number of alumnae on NHL teams.”

“It’s also a boarding school,” Troy says.

“They offer scholarships. They recognize that Sydney is an investment worth making.”

_ There’s always another option _ , Sydney thinks as her dad and Brisson talk business.  _ The Q won’t take me but Shattuck will. And if the NHL won’t take me then there will be another league I can play in. I just have to find it. _

#

Sydney only scores once in the final game, but it’s the OT winner that wins her team the tournament. She adds  _ plays big in big moments  _ to the list of skills she’s shown Coach Ward.

She’s awarded the tournament MVP trophy and accepts it with a smile.

#

Back home, she still takes the cheap hits and plays through uncalled penalties. She tells herself that next year will be better.

#

She’s accepted to Shattuck St. Mary’s on a full scholarship.

Her parents and Taylor come to move her in, and she’s disappointed but unsurprised when she’s given a room in the girls’ dormitory. It makes sense that they’d put her here, but it means she’ll be even more isolated from her team.

Of course, if this team is like any of her other teams then maybe it’s for the best.

“Your roommate will be here tomorrow with the rest of the soccer players,” Alicia, her dorm mom, tells her.

The teams are allowed to move in early, because they have a whole week of training before tryouts. She’s not sure what good a week of training will do for anyone who’s out-of-shape enough to need it, but she’s looking forward to having a real practice routine. They have a personal trainer and a whole team of athletic trainers and a nutritionist and a strength-and-conditioning coach.

It’ll be awesome.

“What’s her name?” Sydney asks.

“Elizabeth. Any other questions you can ask her while you get to know each other.”

Sydney nods.

“I live two doors down from the bathroom. If you ever need anything, my door is open for you.”

Sydney nods again.

Once Alicia leaves, her dad helps her carry her stuff up from the car while Taylor jumps on Elizabeth’s bed. Once her hockey posters are hung up and her suitcases sit open on the floor, her dad watches Taylor while her mom helps her hang up her clothes and make her bed.

“Alicia’s a good resource,” her mom says as she fluffs Syd’s pillow again. “Remember to do your laundry every week, and if you forget the settings, don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Mom,” Sydney groans.

Taylor stops jumping on the bed. She looks around the room. “Is this your new room?”

“It is,” Sydney answers.

“Like camp?”

Taylor hates it when Sydney leaves for hockey camp during the summer. She’s only usually gone for a week at a time, but Taylor writes her letters every day and calls her when she can. Sydney’s not sure how to explain that Shattuck is like camp but for a whole year.

“A little like camp,” Sydney answers. Her eyes sting with tears. She kneels down so Taylor can jump off the bed then rush her. She hugs her sister tightly. “You’ll have to write to me.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Taylor says.

“Maybe if we go to Nationals then Mom will let you skip school and come watch.”

“I hate hockey,” Taylor tells her.

Sydney hugs her one last time before she stands up. She wipes her eyes on her t-shirt.

“We should head out,” Troy says.

Sydney hugs both her parents before they leave. She sits down on her bed and looks over at the empty side of the room. She’s glad Elizabeth isn’t here yet. She needs one night to be sad, one night to hate how far away she’ll be from her family, and then she’ll be better.

_ The Q is closer _ , she thinks as she turns her face into her pillow.

_ The Q doesn’t want me _ .


	2. Chapter 2

There are a handful of sophomores at tryouts, but they have green numbers on their backs which means they aren’t being considered for the top team. Like Brisson told her, there’s only one other sophomore who they’re looking at for the Midget Major AAA team.

“Jack Johnson,” the defenseman says. “You must be Sydney Crosby.”

“What gave it away?” she asks.

He stares at her until she laughs and punches his shoulder.

“Oh! That was a joke!”

She punches him again, and he laughs along with her.

#

Tryouts are hard work, but it’s hockey, and she’s always excelled with skates on her feet and a stick in her hands. She gives her best on the ice and when they go to the weight room she soaks up as much as she can.

She’s strong from backyard workouts and being on the ice whenever possible but there’s a difference between that strength and this one.

Smaby, one of their defensemen, is  _ huge _ and he shows her how to properly deadlift. She already knows how to squat, it’s part of the reason she has to custom order her pants, but deadlifting is new. She loves it though. She grips the bar and pushes with her legs, her core locked tight to keep her back straight. 

She doesn’t have much weight on the bar yet, Smabs wants to make sure her form is good before pushing her, but she already knows this will be one of her favorite lifts. Two platforms down, Duncan is doing the same thing, but he lets the weight slam and rattle on the ground each time. It’s loud, the weights clanking then him grunting and Syd grins.

On the platform on the other side of her, Drew Stafford easily snaps the bar up and catches it in another lift she hasn’t seen before.

“When can I learn that?” she asks Smabs.

“Hang cleaning? One day at a time, kid,” Smabs tells her.

“I’m not a kid,” she says even though it won’t make a difference.

“We could call you Gretzky Junior,” he offers.

“Kid’s fine.”

He laughs and tugs on her ponytail but not in a mean way. “I’ll spot you on the bench. Then we should shower, because the dining hall opens in an hour and we don’t want to get to lunch after Salsa over there.”

Salcido, another d-man, flips Smabs off. “You’re the one who eats like they’ll never feed you again.”

“I’m a growing boy,” Smabs says.

Sydney has to crane her neck to look up at him. “How much more growing do you want to do?”

He laughs and ushers her over to the bench.

#

She’s wedged between Jack and Smabs at lunch, and she eats a small salad with crumbled egg and strips of chicken on it before she puts away two burger patties, a small bowl of pasta, and three cookies.

Everyone’s staring at her as she finishes her glass of chocolate milk.

“I’m only fifteen,” she says, “ _ I  _ still have plenty of growing left to do.”

#

She makes the top team. As one of two sophomores, she’s the second-to-last person called into Coach Ward’s office.

“Congratulations,” Coach Ward tells her. “The easy part is over.”

“I”m not afraid of hard work.”

Sydney knows how this dance goes. She proves herself in tryouts to get herself a place on the team, but she’s never secure. She has to fight for the top-line center job, because if she isn’t the best then coaches jump on the excuse to limit her ice time or even scratch her. It isn’t good enough for her to play third or even second-line center. It isn’t good enough for her to make the team. She has to prove every day that she’s earned her place.

It’s what pushes her to be better, and she knows she has to credit a lot of her success to those high expectations, but it’s also exhausting.

“You wouldn’t be here if you were,” Coach says. “Do you know what number you want?”

He shows her the list of numbers already taken. Number 3 is still open, the number she’s worn at every level so far. A lot of guys pick 9 because of Howe or 19 because of Yzerman, but she’s always worn 3 in honor of France Saint-Louis. She was on the first Canadian Women’s Olympic team. One day, Sydney wants to play in the Olympics, represent her country at the highest level and  _ win  _ with the entire nation’s eyes on her.

She almost asks for the number now, but she knows it’s Jack’s number. And, with all the “Next Gretzky” being thrown around, she’s not sure she wants to wear someone else’s number. She’s not the next Saint-Louis or Rheaume or Gretzky.

She’s the first Sydney Crosby.

“87,” she says.

Coach smiles at her, warm and proud, as he holds a hand out across his desk. “Welcome to the team, number 87.”

#

She meets with her academic advisor before the semester starts.

“Most of your schedule is already planned for you,” Mr. Listol tells her. He’s an older man with wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a thick sweater and if he’s cold now then she’s not sure what he plans to do in the winter. “I’m assuming your coach has told you about the GPA requirements?”

She nods. “Keeping my grades up is important.”

“Very. I hear you’re interested in learning French. Do you have any experience with the language or should I put you in a beginner class?”

French will be useful if she plays in the Q, but she’s still stinging from their rejection. She knows it’s silly; they aren’t rejecting her outright they’re just not giving her an exception to the rules.

Still, it forced her to think. She’s at Shattuck, because the Q wouldn’t accept her early. What’s her plan if the NHL won’t accept her at all? More immediately, where can she go next year that isn’t the Q but will still give her good competition and the opportunity to grow her game?

It’s petty but Syd doesn’t want to play in the Q anymore. They didn’t want her early, and that’ll be their loss, because now, if she has her way, she won’t play for them at all. She’s sure her mom and dad and Brisson and everyone else would disapprove if she told them that, but she doesn’t care.

They told her no, told her she wasn’t good enough to make an exception for so she’s going to become the best player and then throw their rejection back in their face when they try to draft her. She’s going to play on a big stage, somewhere where they have to watch her light it up and know that they could’ve had her in their league but don’t. 

All of her research into next year has pointed her to one place.

“Is there any chance I can learn Russian?”

The Russian Superleague doesn’t have any rules explicitly banning girls from playing, and they allow players to begin their professional careers at 16. Russia is far from home, but it offers her opportunities she won’t have here.

She’ll begin her professional career, she’ll be  _ paid  _ to play the sport she loves and maybe, just maybe, it’ll be the push the NHL needs to open its teams up to women. Right now, they’re dragging their heels, and Sydney’s draft year is getting closer and closer. She doesn’t want to pin all her hopes on the NHL in case they let her down. If she remembers her history right, there’s still enough competition between North America and Russia that if she plays in the RSL then it could make the NHL get with the program. And if it doesn’t, she’ll still have the opportunity to play professional hockey.

She’ll have to be better than she is now, because making the top Shattuck team and making a professional hockey team are very different, but she has a whole year to do it.

A year to bring her hockey up to professional levels and to learn Russian.

How hard can it be?

#

She’s  _ exhausted _ .

She thought having hockey every day would be amazing (it is) but she never thought about how tired she’d be. Smabs has had to rescue her from faceplanting in her dinner more than once, and Mr. Listol has taken to snapping his ruler on his desk to jolt her awake whenever she begins to doze in English.

Right now, she’s scowling at her Russian notes. Maybe she should stick with the Q after all. At least French has an alphabet she knows.

“The soccer team’s going out tonight,” Elizabeth says. She’s standing in front of the full size mirror she brought with her as she does her make-up. “Do you want to come?”

“I have to study.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth piles her hair on top of her head then frowns and lets it fall back down. “Do you think your teammates want to come?”

“We’re not allowed to party.” Sydney looks up from her assignment. “ _ You’re  _ not allowed to party.”

Elizabeth shrugs. “What Coach doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, it’s Thursday night. Alicia always calls her son. There won’t be dorm checks until late.”

Syd can’t imagine having the energy to stay up late enough to go to a party. “Have fun. And let me know when your first home game is. If we don’t have practice then I’ll bring the team.”

“Yeah?” Elizabeth perks up again. “We’ll return the favor, obviously. Have you thought about a spring sport yet?”

“I don’t see why I can’t just train for next hockey season.”

Elizabeth laughs. “I golf but some of the girls on the team play softball.”

Sydney wrinkles her nose.

“Baseball? They might let you since you’re already playing on the boys’ hockey team. They won’t let you get away with nothing. Keeping us active is supposed to keep us out of trouble.”

Sydney looks pointedly at Elizabeth’s ruffled skirt and halter top.

Elizabeth laughs. “I said  _ supposed to _ . Not that it worked.”

After Elizabeth leaves, Sydney studies for another forty five minutes before there’s a tentative knock on her door. 

“Come in,” Syd says. 

Jack pokes his head in. He has his history book tucked under her arm. “Do you want a study partner? I thought they guys would be helpful since they’ve already learned all this shit but…” he shrugs.

“But then you remembered that they’re hockey players which means they’re assholes?” Syd laughs and pats the space next to her on her bed. “I did the reading but I got stuck on the questions at the end.”

Jack eyes the sliver of space on her bed, wary, before he shrugs and tucks himself next to her. It’s a tight squeeze, dorm beds aren’t made for two people let alone two hockey players, but they make it work. 

“The first question asked for the definition of all the bolded words,” Jack says, judgement heavy in his voice.

“Okay, I  _ skimmed  _ the reading,” Syd says. “American history is stupid.”

“Oh, Canada,” Jack warbles, horribly off-key. “Our home and boring land.”

“Fuck you,” she says, laughing as she shoves his shoulder. “Canada’s the best.”

“Is not!”

He shoves her back and they end up wrestling on her bed, American history and Russian vocabulary forgotten as they try to pin each other without either of them toppling over the side of the bed. 

They’re actually doing their homework when Syd hears Alicia’s voice down the hall.

“Oh shit,” Syd says. She glances at her phone to check the time. Alicia’s phone call must’ve been short. 

“I can leave?” Jack asks.

Syd shakes her head. “Get in Elizabeth’s bed. Pull the covers all the way up.”

“What?” Jack asks.

Syd pushes his shoulder. “ _ Go _ .”

With a bewildered look, Jack goes. He dives into Elizabeth’s bed and pulls the covers up until he’s just a person-shaped lump. Syd sweeps his shoes under her bed and turns off the main light. She leaves her desk lamp on and taps her pencil against her lips.

Alicia pokes her head in. She smiles when she sees Syd studying, and smiles even wider when Syd holds a finger to her lips and tips her head towards Elizabeth’s bed. Alicia nods and makes a show of shutting the door. 

Syd waits a few minutes before she whispers, “You can come out now.”

“What the hell?” Jack whispers back. He emerges from Elizabeth’s bed, his hair in total disarray. 

“Now Elizabeth won’t get in trouble,” Syd says. “Also, you’re going to have to sneak out the window when you leave.”

“You’re trouble,” Jack says but he climbs back into Syd’s bed so they can finish their history homework.

#

Syd’s dozing when she hears voices outside her room.

“Elizabeth?” Alicia asks. “I thought you were in bed.”

“Forgot to brush my teeth,” Elizabeth answers. “Good night!”

She slips into their room before Alicia can say anything else. She turns on her desk light and Syd blinks against the brightness even though Elizabeth keeps the bulb turned towards the wall. She’s in her pajamas, toothbrush in hand which means she planned this. 

_ She is a Junior _ , Syd reminds herself.  _ She’s probably learned all the tricks of this place _ . It makes Syd’s chest ache for a moment, wishing she was ever in one place to learn it inside and out. No matter how her plans go, whether she succeeds in the RSL or sticks with the Q, she won’t be here next year. 

And wherever she goes next, the plan is only to stay for two years before being drafted into the NHL. Maybe then she’ll finally have the stability she wants.

“Oh, hey,” Elizabeth says, hushed. “You’re awake.”

“You changed,” Syd says.

Elizabeth grins. “Yeah. Did you cover for me?”

“Jack,” Syd answers. She yawns and pulls her covers up higher. “Pretended to be you. Sorry, I let him in your bed.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth says. Then, “Jack Johnson?”

“Yeah, hockey player.” Syd’s too tired to continue the conversation so she turns on her side, away from her roommate and her desk lamp, and falls asleep.

#

Jack has a red rash on his forearm at practice the next day.

“Dude,” Smabs says, leaping away from him.

“It’s from the tree outside Syd’s room,” Jack says. 

The locker room falls silent.

“What?” Staffy demands, voice low.

Jack looks up, alarmed. “Not like  _ that _ .”

“We were doing our history homework,” Syd says because Jack is an idiot but he could be a solid defenseman, and she doesn’t want him murdered before the season even begins. “Alicia did dorm checks early and he covered for Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth?” Smabs echoes.

“My roommate. Anyway, he had to sneak out. We got our history done, though.”

“Because your homework is clearly the part of the story I’m focusing on.” Staffy looks between them, unsure of what to do.

Fortunately, Syd’s had this particular conversation more than once in her career so far. “I’ve seen, and smelled, all of your jocks,” she tells the room. “What makes you think I have any interest in your dicks after that?”

Smabs chokes.

Staffy turns red then green then red again.

Syd plants her hands on her hips and looks around the room, smile sharpening as everyone quickly glances away so they don’t meet her gaze. “We have time before practice. If you want to talk about my feelings for you then we can do that.”

“Please no,” Duncs says. 

Syd nods. “Good.” She manages to catch Jack’s eye, because he isn’t a complete coward. “Geometry tonight? We have that problem set due Friday.”

“English first.”

“English blows,” Syd says but nods. “Hey, what do you think Listol would do if I wrote him a paper about how I aspire to have an A on my sweater?”

“You’re going to turn  _ The Scarlet Letter  _ into a hockey metaphor?” Jack asks, dubious.

“It’s better than this whole sex-shaming thing Hawthorne has going on. Here’s my question.” Syd pulls her shirt off so she can change into her practice gear. “How come all the books we read are by boring dudes? At some point in the history of the world, a woman had to have written a book, right?”

“That’s next year,” Staffy tells her. “And Jane Austen is boring as shit.”

“Ugh,” Syd says. “Is English mandatory?”

“Oui, oui, mon ami,” Salsa says.

He laughs as Syd chucks her shirt at his head. 

#

Syd watches clips from the RSL. She knows that international ice is bigger but knowing is different than seeing it. There’s so much  _ space _ and even with the shitty camera feed she has, she can’t help but be excited, imaging what she could do with all that space.

It’s dangerous to get ahead of herself, pinning her hopes on the Q led to her being let down, but she obviously hasn’t learned her lesson, because she throws her dreams into this possible future. 

A year at Shattuck, two in Russia, then the NHL. Will the Canadiens draft her like her father? Will she play for a different Canadian team? Maybe she’ll play for the Penguins with Mario Lemieux.

Maybe…

“Uh-oh,” Elizabeth says. “I know that face. Who’re you thinking about?”

“Huh?” Syd looks up from her bio textbook. “Cell structure is boring.”

“You think everything except hockey is boring.”

“Well, yeah.”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “What boy’s on your mind? A hockey player?”

“Ew,” Syd says.

“Soccer?” Elizabeth’s smile turns sly. “I can introduce you. We do a bunch of stuff with the boys’ team.”

“Thinking about next year,” Syd admits. She won’t say anything more than that. 

#

Syd calls Brisson after she’s been at school for a month. “Privet,” she greets when he picks up the phone. “Menya zovut Sydney Crosby.”

She’s pretty sure she butchers the pronunciation, but she gets her point across.

“Kid?” Brisson asks.

“I want to play in the Russian Superleague next year,” she tells him. “They allow girls  _ and  _ sixteen year olds.”

“We have a plan. Shattuck for a year, the Q, then the NHL.”

“I’m not eligible to play in the NHL.”

“Yet.”

“Maybe ever.”

“What happened to letting me handle everything while you play hockey?” Brisson doesn’t sound angry with her. He sounds like he genuinely wants to know.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking ever since the Q denied our petition. If I play in the RSL then I can hone my skills and get paid all while putting pressure on the NHL. It gives them two years to realize I’m serious about playing hockey at the highest level. I can’t let the NHL be my only option. It gives them too much control over my life.”

“You  _ have  _ been thinking,” Brisson says, proud. “I’ll reach out to my contacts, but this doesn’t change our agreement. You focus on hockey. Let me focus on everything else. How are you liking Shattuck?”

“It’s awesome. Did you know that the team gives us gear? Skates and sticks and pads and everything.”

No more buying gear secondhand and wearing it until it falls apart or waiting until Christmas to get a new stick or pair of skates. Everything is new and it’s  _ hers _ .

“You’re moving up in the world.”

In a year, she’ll take her next step.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to everyone!

Syd and Jack are the youngest on the team, but the guys don’t make them stick to themselves. They’re invited to parties and paintball and the grocery store, the little things that bring a team together off the ice.

Syd’s never had trouble fitting in on the ice. Make good passes, score big goals, and she’s golden. Off the ice has always been trickier.

She’s been twisting her hands in her lap for the past five minutes. She’s fully dressed, because she doesn’t loiter in the shower like  _ some _ people. Standing up to make a captain’s speech or call her team out is easy. 

This…

She clears her throat.

A couple guys look over.

She stands up, and they all nudge each other until she has the room’s attention. “Um, hi,” she says.

Duncs snickers. “Hey Croz.”

“So I room with a soccer player. There’s a game tonight. At home. I’m going if anyone else wants to go.”

She holds her breath, hoping they’ll come with her but prepared to go on her own.

“Fuck yeah we’ll go.”

“Can you score us an invite to the after party?”

“ _ Girls _ ,” Golds says a little dreamily.

“Right,” Syd says. Her team is so fucking weird.

#

They go all out, school colors and facepaint. They take over a whole section of the stands and four teachers move to keep an eye on them. They’re rowdy and loud. Their enthusiasm catches, and they make a personalized chant for every player on the field.

They cheer for the tackles and boo every time a foul’s called against their team. It’s some of the most non-hockey fun she’s had since coming here.

The soccer team huddles up before they blow kisses to the hockey team and Syd groans as her team completely loses their shit.

Still, it’s worth it when Elizabeth returns to their room with a giant smile for Syd.

“That was awesome. Thank you.”

Sydney shrugs. “It was fun. The guys wanted to go.”

“Yeah? I didn’t realize they were such big soccer fans.”

Syd shrugs again.

“Ah.” Elizabeth’s smile curls at the corners. “We’re having a party this weekend. Maybe they want to come to that too.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“Cool. Want to tell me what you saw? You have a good eye.”

“For hockey.”

“Probably more than hockey.”

And, well, she’s not wrong. “There were a couple times you hesitated and it threw off the defender. If you can do it on purpose then you can fake them out.”

“Maybe I  _ did _ do it on purpose.”

Syd raises her eyebrows.

Elizabeth laughs. “Yeah, okay.”

“Ornato needs to time her runs better. But it’ll help if Meehan’s passes were more consistent.” Then, because she knows the importance of balance, “The game-winner was all you.”

“I didn’t touch the ball.”

“But you drew the defenders to you, because you made yourself a threat. Ornato wouldn’t have had all that space if it weren’t for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Elizabeth’s cheeks are pink. “Thank you.”

“Have you eaten?” Syd aks.

“Yes, but I can always eat more.”

Syd slides her pencil into her textbook to hold her place. “The dining hall’s about to be open for late hours.”

“ _ Nachos _ ,” Elizabeth moans.

#

Two weeks into the season, Syd’s averaging two points per game and leading her team in the scoring department. To her cautious excitement her teammates seem happy for her, rather than jealous. It helps that she puts up twice as many assists as goals, but still, all signs point to this being a good team.

_ About damn time _ , she thinks.

Then Coach Ward calls her into his office.

She isn’t new to meetings with her coach. Usually, it’s for things like  _ you need to be more careful changing in the locker room _ or  _ I expect a pass-first mentality  _ and  _ you need to talk less and let me do the coaching _ . She’s not sure where Coach Ward will fall. She’s oddly disappointed to think he’ll be like all of her other coaches.

“As you know, I don’t usually take sophomores on my team,” he says.

Sydney nods. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“I didn’t give you anything,” he says. “You earned it.”

She’s not here to be scolded or shoved down? She straightens her posture.

Coach Ward cracks a smile. “I don’t often take sophomores because of development reasons. A year of growing, of strength building, of hockey sense, that makes a big difference at this level. You and Johnson have some catching up to do.”

She tilts her head, curious.

“I want to increase your time in the weight room and adjust your diet accordingly. I also want to take your game to the next level. No one can doubt your offensive prowess, and your puck possession numbers mean defense has never been a priority for you. That changes now.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“I know it isn’t as glamorous, but keeping pucks out of our net is as important as putting them in the other.”

“Yes, Coach,” she says again.

“Your teachers tell me your grades are good but that you and Johnson are watching NHL highlights during class.”

Busted.

“Treat your teachers like you treat me. Do you dick around during meetings?”

Syd shakes her head.

“Then don’t do it in class. Apparently your independent study is your best class.”

She has extra motivation to learn Russian. “I like being able to choose what I learn.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

#

She meets Jack for an afternoon snack in the cafeteria. She consults her new diet plan as she tries to figure out what to eat.

“You too?” he asks. “Mom’s cookies didn’t make the list.”

“Cheat day,” she says. She refuses to give those up. “Did you get a lecture on paying attention in class?”

“Yep.”

She settles on veggies, a scoop of cottage cheese and a scoop of hummus. It isn’t the most exciting snack, but she knew she’d have to make sacrifices if she wanted to be an elite hockey player. They take their food to a table near the TVs.  _ Family Feud _ is on.

“Can’t they at least play ESPN?” Syd asks.

“Not like they’d cover hockey. Coach wants to try me with Salsa. He thinks I lean too much on Smabs.”

“You do. Not in a bad way but.” She drags a carrot through her hummus. “When you know he’s there you don’t have to stick so close to your assignment.”

“What’d he tell you?”

“I need to work on my defensive play.”

“Wait, there’s a time that you’re on the ice and  _ don’t _ have the puck?”

“Hilarious,” she says. “And that was Coach’s point. I haven’t had to play a lot of defense so I’m not used to it. I might be able to get away with it here but not at the next level.”

“The Q, right?” Jack stares as a couple football players walk by, their plates piled high with pizza.

“I’m not going the NCAA route.”

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “Not everyone has the smarts for college.”

She rolls her eyes and dips her celery in the cottage cheese.

#

True to his word, Coach puts Syd to work at their next practice. She’s at the goal line on her own end, and Jack holds her jersey as Duncs takes off with the puck. Jack doesn’t let go until he’s almost out of the zone and Syd has to try hard to catch him.

She learns to back check and how to poke the puck off an opponent’s stick as she runs down each of the forwards on her team. She’s exhausted by the end of the drill, sweat soaking through her jersey and breathing hard.

“Every day,” Coach Ward says.

Syd nods.

It isn’t only her who works the drill. After a blowout loss, Coach is unimpressed with everyone’s defense, and they spend the first half of practice chasing down their assistant coaches.

It’s a little like a bag skate except with purpose.

#

It’s nine o’clock and Syd’s eyes keep slipping closed as she tries to do her geometry problems. She’s doing her homework on the floor in the hope that she won’t fall asleep, but it’s a losing battle.

Two more problems. She can do the rest in the morning.

She covers her yawn with her hand and pokes herself with her pencil in the process.

Her stomach grumbles, loud and demanding.

“Caf?” Elizabeth asks.

Moving seems like too much effort, even for food. Her stomach grumbles again.

“Bring your homework,” Elizabeth says. “We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

It takes five minutes for Syd to peel herself off the floor. She stumbles downstairs with Elizabeth to guide her.

“They’re working you hard, huh?” Elizabeth asks.

Syd nods. “Developmentally I’m a year, maybe more, behind. It’s a lot to catch up on.”

“No one can watch you play and think you’re  _ behind _ .”

“My defense is spotty.”

“Yeah, because people want you for your  _ defense _ .”

Elizabeth means well but she only proves Coach’s point. Sydney needs to round out her game.

She piles a plate high with food and they take over a six person table so they can both spread out.

“Wow,” Elizabeth says. “Did you skip dinner?”

“New training plan means new diet plan.”

Elizabeth shrugs. “Want to take another crack at your geometry?”

Syd’s finished her homework and is losing steam on her second dinner when Jack and Staffy find them. They drop down on either side of Syd.

“We’re about to leave,” Syd warns.

“Not until you finish what’s on your plate,” Staffy says.

Syd arches her eyebrows.

“I spot you in the weight room,” he reminds her.

“Ugh.” She picks her spoon back up.

“I’m Elizabeth,” her roommate says. “I remember you from the soccer game.” Her eyes linger on Jack. “You look different with your shirt on.”

Jack turns bright red and Sydney laughs.

“We prefer him that way,” Staffy tells Elizabeth.

Jack turns even redder.

#

“We’re coming to your game tonight,” Elizabeth says as Syd struggles to pull her pants up over her thighs. “The ice rink’s a little cold to go shirtless though.”

“I’m sure you’ll find another way to show your support.” Syd grunts and sucks in her stomach so she can drag her zipper up.

“All those squats finally hitting you?” Elizabeth asks.

Syd manages to button her pants, but she feels like she’s one deep breath away from busting the seams. “It’s improving my game.”

She’s noticeably faster and she’s harder to knock of the puck. Fordsy’s promised to work on hipchecking with her next practice.

“You know what it means, though?”

Syd looks up as she buttons her blouse.

“ _ Shopping _ .”

Sydney groans. “I’m going to have to call Jack’s mom.”

“You could. Or Lyssa can sign us out. She has a car.”

Syd stops buttoning her shirt. “Your captain would take me suit shopping?”

“Uh, yeah,” Elizabeth says like  _ Syd’s  _  the weird one.

“Sure,” Syd says. “I mean, thank you.” She scowls down at her pants. “I can’t wait to take these off.”

Elizabeth’s laughter follows her out of the room.

#

Instead of going shirtless, the soccer team paints white t-shirts with the names and numbers of the hockey players.

Elizabeth has JOHNSON #3 stamped across her back. Jack keeps getting distracted during warm-ups.

“Maybe next game you can lend her your away jersey,” Staffy smirks.

“Fuck off,” Jack says but sneaks another peek.

#

They’re camped in the offensive zone when Salsa’s shot is blocked by a forward who clutches his knee and swears. His center scoops up the puck and takes off.

_ Not on my watch. _

Syd chases him down, gaining and gaining until she pokes the puck harmlessly to the corner. Duncs swoops in and tosses it up to Staffy. Syd goes for a change. She drops onto the bench and her teammates hit whatever part of her they can reach.

Coach squeezes her shoulders through her padding. “Good work, kid.”

#

In the dwindling seconds of the first period, Syd has the puck on her stick, and she weaves through tired forwards, splits the D, and goes forehand-backhand to lift the puck over the goalie’s outstretched pad.

The soccer team erupts, cheering and shouting, their noise finally resolving into a vicious chant. “She’s a girl!” they yell at the opposing team as they take the final faceoff of the period. They keep it up as the other team troop to the locker room, heads bowed.

Syd waves to Elizabeth before Staffy pushes her towards their locker room. “Bask in your fame later.”

She splutters as he laughs.

She dead-arms him and they’re pushing and shouting, both laughing as they reach the locker room.

Coach Ward sighs but she thinks she sees a hint of a smile as well.

#

The other team guns for her to start the second. Apparently they don’t like being shown up by a girl. Syd bites down on her mouthguard and prepares for a physical period. She’s checked and shoved and elbowed, and she gives back as good as she gets.

She knows how to whack someone’s ankles when going for the puck and how to elbow harder than necessary when battling along the boards.

Midway through the second, she’s on support while Staffy and Salsa battle. The puck pops free and she knocks it ahead of her and chases it down. She settles the puck as she skates and grins as the defender turns to face her. There might be some people who can skate backwards and keep up with her, but he isn’t one of them.

She pushes the puck ahead, tempting. Once he lunges , she passes to herself between his legs and blows past him. The rink swells with noise. It’s only her and the goalie and everyone knows what happens next.

She shows off a little, drawing the goalie out like he didn’t learn anything from watching his teammate. Once he’s committed, she tucks the puck into the net, easy as anything.

She points her stick towards the soccer team and lets them celly for her, loud and obnoxious. She grins and opens her arms to her teammates.

#

It’s a four-point night for her, two goals and two assists. The other team collapsed on her in the third period, determined to deny her a hatty. It opened up the ice for the rest of her teammates and everyone’s all smiles after the 5-2 win.

They shower then descend on the dining hall. There are a couple people there who shout out congrats or flash them thumbs-up but recognizing a hungry team, they all grab the food they want then clear out.

They take their table, one of the long ones where the chairs are spaced out to accommodate hockey thighs. Their plates and elbows still bump up against each other. It’s quiet except for grunts or groans as they shovel food into their mouths. It isn’t until they’re on their second plates that any of them speak.

“Fuck,” Salsa sighs, patting his stomach. “Good fucking game, eh?”

“Our baby rookie is growing up,” Staffy says, sniffling and wiping at imaginary tears. “Backchecking and everything.”

“I’ll backcheck  _ you _ ,” Syd says.

“Ooh,” everyone choruses even though the chirp didn’t even make sense. Staffy stands, glass of chocolate milk raised. “Today is a very emotional day, friends. Syd the Kid is now Syd the Grumpy Teenager.”

The team hoots and hollers as Syd flips them off. She smiles all through their post-game meal.

#

Syd has her own shower but she showers quickly then changes in the locker room, because too much happens in there for her to miss it.

Yes, she has to be wary of shaving cream pies or her laces being cut but that’s part of being  _ team _ .

“Ultimate after brunch?” Salsa asks. “We have the whole afternoon off.”

It’s a rare Sunday with no game, just a stupid early practice. Syd braids her wet hair so it won’t drip everywhere and pulls on a pair of sweatpants.

“Croz is on my team,” Hewer says, pointing his paddle at her.

“I’m sitting this one out,” she says.

The locker room falls quiet.

“Sydney?” Jack asks, using her full name like an asshole.

“You’re passing on a competition?” Salsa asks.

She knows they won’t let her go without an explanation but telling them what she’s doing will lead to being chirped for the next month.

“I already have plans,” she says.

“You?” Salsa asks, surprised.

Staffy punches his shoulder then looks back at Sydney. “Plans? With a  _ boy _ ?”

“No. With the soccer team.”

“And you didn’t invite  _ us? _ ” Hewer asks.

“That’s it,” Staffy says. “I need to meet them. Who has a tie?”

“What?” Syd asks.

Staffy raids the locker room to throw on a mis-matched suit, including a clip-on tie and Coach Ward’s spare dress shoes. He looks ridiculous. He insists on Syd being picked up outside the locker room.

“I’m so sorry,” Syd says when Elizabeth and Lyssa show up. Lyssa takes one look at Staffy and laughs. “This isn’t a date.”

“I still expect her home by 10,” Staffy says, deepening his voice. “No sugar, it’s bad for her conditioning, and no funny business.”

“How about ill-advised piercings? I’m thinking belly button.”

“Tongue,” Elizabeth counters.

“You’re all assholes,” Syd says. She punches Jack’s shoulder then, struck by a moment of inspiration, brushes her lips over Staffy’s cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

He goes white, face screwing up, and the team’s too busy laughing at him to heckle her as she leaves.

“Sorry,” Syd says again.

“Like our team’s any different,” Lyssa says. “That last bit at the end there was fucking classic.”

Lyssa drives a minivan. Sydney can’t quite hold back her smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lyssa says with the tired air of someone who’s heard it all before. “Get the soccer mom jokes in now.”

“If you’re a single mom of girls and Staffy’s a single dad of mostly guys, when are you getting married and making us the Brady Bunch?” Sydney asks.

Lyssa points a warning finger at her but it’s too late.

“Who’s Staffy?” Mercedes asks as Sydney squeezes into the back with her and Elizabeth.

“Drew Stafford,” Sydney answers. “Uh--”

“Dreeeeew,” the whole van choruses.

“Fuck off,” Lyssa says.

“Or she’ll turn this car around,” Elizabeth stage whispers.

Lyssa holds up her middle finger as she backs out of her parking spot.

Sydney grins and settles in for what should be a fun day.

#

Every time a new song comes on, everyone twists to look at her. Embarrassingly, it takes four songs and Fergie singing about junk in the trunk for Syd’s face to flush red.

“She figured it out!” Mercedes announces.

“It’s the Booty Playlist,” Elizabeth says.

#

Sydney ends the day with three new pairs of pants, one skirt, and an ache in her side from laughing so much.

“I still think you should’ve bought that dress,” Elizabeth says as Syd hangs up her purchases.

“It was skintight. I can’t wear that to a game.”

“There’s more to life than hockey,” Elizabeth says as she sprawls across her bed. “We’re having a party next weekend.”

“I wear jeans and v-necks to parties. I’ve had too much shitty beer spilled on me to wear anything nice.”

“You looked hot in the dress.”

Syd shakes her head. “We’ll be back late next weekend, but I can invite the guys to your thing if you want.”

“Yeah? Will you let me dress you?”

“Not a chance.”

“The soccer guys will be there.”

Syd hangs up her skirt and drops onto her own bed.

“The softball girls too,” Elizabeth adds.

“And?”

Elizabeth sighs. “And nothing.”

They lie in silence for a bit. Syd’s tired from an afternoon trying on clothes but happy too. The path she’s chosen means she’s never had girl friends. It’s… nice. It almost makes her want to stay here another year.

Finally, Elizabeth breaks the silence. “So you don’t, uh.”

Syd waits, patient.

Elizabeth sighs. “Do you like Jack?”

“He’s my d-man.”

“If I knew more about hockey then that would mean something to me.”

“He protects me as fiercely as he protects Hewer and his net. He takes stupid penalties sometimes, but I feel safe every time I step on the ice. That’s new for me.”

“Oh.”

“And his mom makes the best chocolate chip cookies.” Syd looks over at Elizabeth and decides to take pity on her. “I don’t want to kiss him. That’s not how I like him. And it’s not how he likes me. So you should go for it.”

“What?”

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

“You think he noticed?”

Syd laughs. “He’s too busy trying no to get caught staring at you to catch you staring at him. It’s kind of sad, really. Two ships passing in the night. I’ll be your lighthouse.”

“How the fuck are you passing English?”

Syd laughs again, the hiccuping giggles that everyone makes fun of her for.


	4. Chapter 4

Brisson calls her in December. “Hey kid. You’re tearing it up out there.”

She’s averaging over two points per game now, and Coach doesn’t put her on the PK, but he doesn’t shelter her line anymore.

“Thanks. Did you see me separate Fallon from the puck last night?”

“You mean when he tried to out-muscle you and realized too late that it was a bad idea?”

“Yeah, that was cool.” Then, “My parents are coming up for the Winter Tournament.”

“That’s good,” he says. “I’ve been asking around like you asked. A lot of teams would love to have you. I took the really bad ones off the list.”

_ A lot of teams would love to have you.  _ A smile lights up her face.

“Who’s left?”

“SKA St. Petersburg, Dynamo Moscow, and Metallurg Magnitogorsk. I want you to look into them and tell me what you think. But if you’re happy there, I want you to know you don’t have to do this.”

“I’ll be happy anywhere there’s hockey. I wouldn’t be at Shattuck next year anyway.”

“Okay. Do you want to tell me why people were holding up pictures of Jan Brady whenever you were on the ice?”

Syd laughs. “I’m playing matchmaker.”

“Right,” Brisson says. He doesn’t sound like he understands or like he wants to. “You’ll look into those teams?”

“Definitely. Thank you for doing this. I know it wasn’t the plan, but I think it’ll be good for me. And Coach Ward pushes me to be better every day. I’ll be ready next year. Not perfect, obviously, but I’ll have a strong case for why they should want me on their team.”

“Anyone with eyes and a brain should see why they want you on their team.”

Syd smiles and when she’s done talking to Brisson, she calls home.

#

She watches as many RSL games as she can on skippy streams. She watches Moscow and St. Petersburg and Magnitogorsk and tries to figure where she’d fit in their line-ups.

Her Russian isn’t great and the announcers speak too fast, but one name keeps popping up as she watches and reads about the RSL, Alexander Ovechkin.

Only a year older than her, he’s the rising star of Russia. It’s Ovechkin this and Ovechkin that, bets on how quickly he’ll become a top scorer and how he’ll lead Russia to gold in Turin. It’s hype and pressure and it’s  _ perfect _ .

“Moscow,” she tells Brisson the next time they talk. “I want to play for Dynamo Moscow.”

Brisson’s quiet for a beat too long. “That’s not where I thought you’d choose. And I didn’t expect you to decide so soon.”

“I want to play there. Let me know what I need to work on.”

“Sydney,” he says, serious because he actually uses her name. “They already have a superstar. Ovechkin is becoming synonymous with that team.”

“I know. He’s the reason I want to play there.”

“Kid.” He sounds pained, like the time she told her dad that Mike Todd down the road was kind of cute.

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t  _ want _ to be a RSL superstar. Let Ovechkin draw all the attention. It’ll give me the space to just play and grow my game until the NHL gets their act together.”

“What about Magnitogorsk? This Malkin kid is supposed to be good.”

“He’s shy. Ovechkin will draw all the cameras and reporters. Besides, I think he’d look on my wing.”

“I know better than to get in your way. Have you talked to your parents about this yet?”

“I will.”

“Maybe don’t lead with Ovechkin.”

“Pat,” she groans.

“Just trying to help you out, kid.”

#

She waits until the next time she sees her parents in person. This seems like the kind of conversation she should have face-to-face. Her parents take her and Jack out to lunch then drop him back off at school before bringing Syd and Taylor to a local playground so Taylor can run around.

She tugs on Syd’s hand when she sits on the bench with their parents. “Come play with me.”

“Ten minutes,” Syd tells her. “I need to talk to Mom and Dad.”

Taylor hesitates before she decides the slide is cooler than talking and runs off.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” Trina asks.

“I’ve been thinking about next year.”

Her dad sits up straighter as if he knows what she has to say will require a stiff spine to hear.

Her mom, more cautious, prompts her with a quiet, “Oh?”

“I want to play in the RSL.”

“RSL?” Trina repeats.

“Russia,” Troy answers. His shoulders roll forward but his back stays straight. “What kind of thinking?”

“The Q didn’t want me.”

“Early,” Trina says. “They didn’t want you  _ early _ .”

There’s desperation in her voice as if she knows Syd’s mind is already made up.

“They didn’t accept me early,” Syd amends. “Shattuck was another option. A  _ good _ option. But it made me consider my options if the NHL doesn’t want me which, right now, they don’t.”

“You’ll make them want you,” Trina says. “The same way you’ve been changing minds your whole life. Troy, tell her.”

“The RSL accepts girls and they accept sixteen year olds. If I play there then I show everyone I’m serious. I show the  _ NHL _ and it gives them two years to get their act together. And if they don’t then I still have professional hockey.” She meets her dad’s gaze evenly. “You told me hockey would take me far away from home.”

“You’re not thinking about next year. You’ve decided.”

“Pat’s looked into teams for me,” she says. “I want to play for Dynamo Moscow.”  _ But I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want ask for permission, but I want you to tell me yes. _

There’s a long stretch of silence as Syd struggles not to fidget.

“Well,” Troy finally says. “You let Pat worry about next year. You still have a season to focus on.”

“Of course,” Syd says.

Taylor runs over then to demand Syd come push her on the swing. It means leaving her parents to talk, but she isn’t worried. Even if they don’t agree with her decision, she won’t be swayed.

#

She continues to muddle through her Russian lessons. She doesn’t pick it up as quickly as she’d like, but she can’t give anymore time to studying. She has her other classes to keep on top of and practice ramps up after the holidays.

There’s only a few months left in the season and for most of them, this is their final season at Shattuck.

They all want to win.

She wakes up early for on-ice practice, pinches herself to stay awake during class, naps before off-ice practice then collapses in bed at night with her headphones in so she can listen to her Russian lessons.

Her clothes fit weird again. They’re snug across her ass, but loose in her thighs. Her jackets are too big now too.

Their nutritionist adds two protein shakes to her daily routine.

#

There are five QMJHL scouts in the stands for this game. Syd tries not to think about them. She focuses on hockey, being strong on the forecheck and quick on the backcheck. She drives hard to the net and cleans up rebounds and at the end of the night she has two goals and four assists in a 7-3 win.

In the locker room, Coach Ward says, “There’s a swarm of people who want to talk to you.”

She wipes the worst of the sweat off her face. She plops a baseball cap on her head and steps outside to greet them.

“Crosby!”

“Sydney!”

“Crosby--”

There are camera flashes and people pushing and shouting. She smiles and waits, patient, for things to settle.

“That was quite the show you put on,” a reporter says.

She only recognizes three people in the crowd. The rest have flown in for this game.

_ For me. _

“I just went out there and tried to play my best,” Sydney says.

“There are a lot of people who flew in to watch you play. You weren’t trying to show why you should be drafted first round?”

“I played my game, obviously. I hope people liked what they saw, but I didn’t change my style.”

“What do you say to the people who call you the next Gretzky?”

Here she has to walk a fine line. She ducks her head to look bashful. “It’s a compliment, but one I don’t think I’ve earned. He’s certainly a player I look up to, but at the end of the day I want to be Sydney Crosby.”

“You’ve added a stronger defensive game to an already dominant offensive one. Is that in preparation for next year?”

“It is but also, I want to improve every year. Every game, really. I know that I’m young and there’s still a lot for me to learn. But I’ve definitely put in the work on my defensive game this year.”

“Are you concerned about the competition level next year?”

“I’m focused on this year. It’s a special team we have, and we want to see how far we can go.”

“Any words for the scouts in the stands or the teams they represent?”

_ You should’ve picked me when you had the chance. _

Sydney smiles. “Thank you for coming to watch this game and safe travels home.”

She ducks back into the locker room to shower and change.

#

The next night, Sydney’s in Staffy and Salsa’s room, hanging out because Jack and Elizabeth wanted some alone time. She half-heartedly reads her math problems.

“Do you think you’ll go first overall?” Salsa asks. “For the Q, I mean.”

Sydney shrugs. “I try not to think about it.”

“I can’t imagine there’s anyone better.”

“Thanks,” she tells him.

“You think the NHL will let you play?”

Staffy elbows their d-man. “What is this? Fucking 20 Questions?”

“I try not to think about it,” Sydney answers.

“There aren’t any cameras here,” Salsa says.

“I try not to think about it,” she repeats. “That’s the truth. Because what if they don’t? What if I make my entire life hockey then find out at 18 that the NHL won’t let me in? I--” She shakes her head, her throat tight even though she has a back-up plan in place. “It’s better to focus on right now.”

“Shit,” Salsa mutters.

“Not everyone makes it to the NHL. Like everyone else, all I can do is play my best and hope it’s enough.”

“But you’re not like everyone else. You’re the next Gretzky.”

“I’m the first Sydney Crosby,” she corrects.

And she’ll make that good enough.

#

Her parents call regularly, but they don’t talk about the RSL, the future on hold as the present demands more and more of her time. They’re ramping up for the playoffs, everyone excited and a little nervous. Some of the guys have been here before and they know what it’s like to lose. The rest of them try to prepare for something they’ve never done before.

Practice is too serious, guys bodychecking during drills, then too silly as they try too hard to relax.

Syd tries to stay even-keeled but on the day of their last regular season game the guys are goofing off during two-touch and the soccer ball crashes into her neat line of game sticks. Syd watches as her sticks clatter to the ground.

And she just got the fucking tape right.

She takes a deep breath and leaves her team so she can gather her sticks and bring them to the locker room. She sits in her stall and unwraps each stick until the shaft is bare and a little sticky where the tape had been.

Coach Ward comes in as she tears the tape off her last stick so she can start over.

“You know,” he says as he sits next to her. “The nature of schools like this one is that there’s a lot of turnover. I keep a few players year to year, but there’s no such things as a core. You forge a new identity every year.”

Syd fusses until she lines the tape up just right. “ _ You’re _ here every year.”

She winds the tape up the shaft of her stick. When she finishes, satisfied with it, she sets it with the others.

“So I am,” Coach says. “It’s good to have something familiar to fall back on.”

She trails her fingers over her sticks. “Yeah.”

#

They take a bus to Maryland for the USA National Championship tournament. It’s a long drive, everyone talking too much or not enough, nervousness spreading through the bus. Syd wasn’t here last year when they lost in the semifinal, but she can see the shadow of the loss on too many faces.

This year, they’re winning.

They have to.

This is the biggest stage she’ll play on this season. It’s her last opportunity to make her case for playing professional hockey next season.

She takes a deep breath and looks out the window.

Jack nudges her, light enough that she could ignore him if she wanted to.

“Do you think we’re ready?” she asks, voice low so no one else will hear.

“Yes.”

No doubt, just steady, the defenseman she’s learned to depend on this season. She’s not ready to play apart from him.  _ Then win. The more we win, the longer we play together _ .

She holds her hand out, palm up. It’s an invitation but subtle enough that Jack could pretend not to see. He grips her hand, and she breathes easier.

#

Per usual, she has her own room when they check into the hotel. At least here, she has a room with a door that connects to Jack and Hippsy’s room. She opens it as soon as she’s in the room. Hippsy isn’t the kind of guy to make a big deal out of it, and she’s glad.

Even if she agrees with the reason for why she has her own room, she doesn’t want be separated from her teammates right now.

“Shower then food?” Jack asks. “I think Salsa said something about a steakhouse.”

“Do they have good salmon?”

Jack shrugs. “How the hell am I supposed to know? Hewer says to wear a suit.”

“I know  _ that _ .”

Sydney showers and changes into her grey slacks and a deep blue shirt. She stares at the travel make-up kit that Elizabeth insisted she bring before she decides to let it be. She slips on a pair of flats and knocks on Jack’s open door.

“We’re dressed,” Jack says. “Mostly.”

Syd catches a glimpse of blue and red and grins. “Superman boxers?”

“You know it.”

Hippsy looks between then and shakes his head. “You two ready?”

The team descends on the steakhouse for their first meal in Laurel. The salmon is good. The asparagus is better. She sneaks a bite of Jack’s steak when he isn’t looking. That’s good too. If they had a game tomorrow then she would’ve gotten steak. But here in a new city, she isn’t going to mess with her routines.

Steak is for the night before games only.

Trying a piece off Jack’s plate isn’t the same as ordering it for herself.

She sneaks a second bite then leaves his dinner alone.

#

They pile into Salsa’s room after dinner, taking up every piece of furniture then the floor when the beds and chairs run out of space. Syd ends up in a pile of blankets and pillows with Jack on one side and Staffy on the other.

“Every night, this is where we come,” Salsa says. “There’s no partying, no drinking, no staying up late and doing stupid shit. Until this tournament is over, we’re locked in. Every single one of us.”

Sydney nods. Next to her, Jack does too.

#

Their first game of the tournament is against IMG Hockey Academy.

Syd methodically tapes her sticks in the locker room as her teammates settle themselves with their own routines. Hewer takes up half his bench to stretch. Salsa sits with his eyes closed, mouthing words she can’t hear.

Jack taps his fingers on his thighs. He turns his head up towards the ceiling. He’s never told he what he thinks about. Maybe nothing. Maybe he’s praying.

The wait before the game is the worst. Time seems to stretch and slow. She wants to be on the ice, stick in hand, and proving herself. She listens to Coach run through plays and defensive match-ups, and all that is important, but she already knows it.

Finally, they’re let onto the ice. She’s the last one on the ice, and the noise level grows, boos and cheers battling for which will be heard. She blocks them both out.

#

She takes the opening faceoff.

The kid across from her sneers, his face distorted through his face mask.

She beats him clean to start the first game of the tournament.

#

She feels like she’s flying, weaving in and out of IMG’s players, the puck seemingly stuck on her stick until she wants to pass it. She spins around a defender and drops a pass back to Duncs who shoots high on the goalie.

It pings off the crossbar. Syd races to the puck, reaching it first. Someone slams into her from behind, but she doesn’t go down. She holds her position, protecting the puck even as another IMG player skates in. If there are two on her then it means one of her teammates has to be open.

Someone bangs their stick on the ice.

She makes a blind pass, trusting.

Once the puck is gone, she’s only shoved once more.

She turns in time to see Staffy shoot, the puck squeaking under the bar.

The goal light flashes, and she throws her hands up in the air. Staffy kicks his leg up and waves at the audience, and they cheer even louder.

“Here we fucking go!” Salsa shouts as he slams into their celly. “All game long!”

#

They’re up 3-0 by the end of the first period.

“Do not let up,” Coach Ward says. “Momentum can shift at any time.”

#

IMG scores on the first shift of the second period.

They score again while Salsa’s in the box on a tripping penalty.

3-2.

#

By the end of the second period it’s 3-4.

They troop down to the locker room and Sydney stares at her hands. What happened to the first period? She felt so good and now...now they’re a fucking disaster.

“Hey,” Staffy says and the whole locker room snaps to attention. “Don’t hang your fucking heads. We still have another period to play, and we can’t do that if you’re all moping. Yeah, they scored four. Now it’s our turn. Show these fucking punks we’re better than their best.”

“Fuck yeah,” Salsa says.

It isn’t the most eloquent speech Syd’s ever heard, but it works.

They hit the ice for the third, revitalized.

Salsa scores them the equalizer.

Syd scores what will be the game winning goal.

Then, two goal later, they win 7-4.

#

The next game, they score 7 goals again.

It’s 6-2 at the end of the second, and the game grows chippy.

It’s 6-3 midway through the third.

It’s 7-3 when Hippsy’s slammed into from behind.

He drops, and Syd’s heart flies into her throat. She leaps to her feet even though she’s on the bench and can’t do anything. She grabs Staffy’s hand and squeezes it tight, because Hippsy  _ isn’t moving _ .

The trainers rush out.

Someone brings a stretcher.

“Shit,” Smabs says.

There are eight seconds left on the clock.

Syd watches from the bench as those eight seconds wind down.

#

They aren’t allowed to visit Hippsy.

“Focus on the game,” they’re told as if their teammate wasn’t stretchered off the ice.

They all cram into the two beds in Salsa’s room, a giant cuddle pile, drawing strength from each other.

#

They win their next three games.

They aren’t easy wins, but they’re wins, and they keep advancing.

They’re playing for Hippsy who can only watch now as the tournament winds down.

#

They face Team Illinois in the finals.

Jack tap-tap-taps his leg in the locker room.

Sydney wants to throw something at him. His nerves are interrupting her concentration and making  _ her  _ nervous.

Salsa has taped his stick six times.

Maybe Syd’s stick needs another taping.

Staffy drums his fingers on his helmet.

Every tiny noise is magnified until she hears  _ everything _ . It’s loud, demanding space in her head she can’t afford to give up.

Coach Ward clears his throat.

Everything stills as they turn to him.

“Here we are,” he says. “It’s the last game of the tournament. You’ve all played well up to this point, and I’m proud of each and every one of you. This game is what we’ve worked to all season. For some of you, it’s been two years coming. Your legacy at Shattuck, how you’ll be remembered, it all comes down to these sixty minutes.”

Syd takes a deep breath and as she exhales, she settles.

She’s ready.

#

She wins the opening faceoff. It’s the longest she has the puck on her stick for her first shift. Every time she’s passed to, there’s immediately an enemy jersey swarming her. Every time she battles along the boards, one guy then two crash into her.

She turns the puck over twice in her first two shifts, and she throws herself down on the bench. Staffy edges away from her.

And--

No.

She can’t afford to throw a tantrum. And her team can’t afford being afraid of her.

She slides closer to Staffy. “There’s no room for me out there.”

“Want me to fuck someone up?”

She shakes her head. “If they’re crowding me then there’s room for you and Duncs. The passes will be quick and they won’t always be right on your tape.”

Staffy cuffs her shoulder. “We’ll be ready.”

#

With a minute to go in the first period, Sydney takes the puck up ice. Immediately, two players converge on her. A quick look shows Staffy open with Duncs breaking towards the net. She flings the puck to Staffy and braces herself for a hit.

Staffy gathers the pass then slides it to Duncs who taps it into the net.

1-0.

Syd pushes through the two guys who were defending her to rush her linemates.

#

Illinois scores to open the second.

1-1.

#

On the powerplay, Sydney finally has room to work, and she buries the puck with a vicious wrister.

2-1.

#

A goal by Illinois.

2-2.

#

Shattuck manages to score again in the second then they cling to their lead as time runs down.

With twenty minutes left in the Finals, they’re up 3-2.

#

The locker room hums with energy during intermission. They can do this. They have a lead and they can hold it. They can beat Team Illinois and capture the National Championship. The exclamation point on an already good year.

Syd closes her eyes and visualizes quick, crisp passes, because the game will only get harder from here.

#

Team Illinois scores.

Then they score again.

It’s 3-4 and they’re facing their first deficit of the game.

“We don’t give up!” Staffy shouts on the bench, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. “There’s five minutes left in this game, and we won’t quit.”

Syd tugs on his jersey to take him and Duncs over the boards. She keeps them close and skates slowly to the faceoff dot. “I win the faceoff then crash the net. You two handle the rest.”

Duncs laughs and it eases some of the tension in his shoulders. “That’s your game plan?”

She grins and takes her place for the faceoff.

She wins it.

She plants herself in front of the goalie. A defender swoops in to crosscheck her, but she stands her ground. The goalie whacks at the backs of her knees with his paddle. It stings but she doesn’t budge. The defender shoves her again. She shoves back. The goalie jabs her.

Duncs uses her as a screen and snaps the puck into the net.

She pushes off the defender and skates to Duncs, arms wide open.

“Don’t diss my game plan ever again,” she tells him then laughs as he facewashes her.

#

With a minute to go in the game, their line is put back on the ice for an offensive zone faceoff.

“What wise words of wisdom do you have this time?” Duncs asks, teasing, but there’s something serious in the way both he and Staffy watch her, attentive, the same way they do to Coach.

They think she has some kind of magic that will win them this game.

“Okay,” she says to buy herself a second then sketches out a quick play for them.

She wins the faceoff and tangles up with the other center in the process.

It ruins the plan for Duncs to fake a pass to her, but he improvises, passing to Salsa then demanding the puck back immediately. Salsa returns his pass and while Illinois’s defense is still scrambling, he passes to Staffy.

Staffy buries the puck, enough heat on his shot that that goalie doesn’t even move before it’s in the back of the net.

There’s twenty seconds left in the game, it isn’t over, except in every way that feels like it is.

She doesn’t jump on Staffy.

It’s a close thing.

#

When the twenty seconds die down, when they’ve  _ won _ , then she jumps on him.

He holds her up and screams, “Fucking winners!” in her face.

#

They spray sparkling cider in the locker room and bellow  _ We Are the Champions  _ at the top of their lungs.

Coach laughs and joins in, even when they soak his shirt with cider.

They’re all drenched and sticky but still all smiles as they’re shepherded back to the hotel. By silent agreement, they end up in Salsa’s room.

They won but that means this is the end.

For one last night, they want to cling to this team.


	5. Chapter 5

After hockey is over, school passes quickly. Jack and Elizabeth break up, Jack and Syd are ejected from a baseball game then the team for starting a fight. Her dad tries to sound disappointed when the school makes her call him, but she knows he isn’t. He’s always been the one who told her to stand up for herself and her teammates.

Brisson calls to tease her. “Should I tell Moscow you’re a brawler?”

“Hilarious,” she deadpans. Then, “You’ve been talking to them?”

“Here and there. Nothing concrete until this summer. Patience.”

It’s hard to be patient now that hockey is over and she doesn’t know where next year’s hockey will be. She watches as much footage of Ovechkin as she can find. She watches Malkin too but not as much because it makes her want to play with him.

She dedicates the time she used to spend at baseball working on her Russian and in the weight room. She can’t make herself taller, but she can be stronger.

The school year eventually ends and the team gets together one last time. They’re scattering next year, NCAA and the Q and the OHL and maybe the NHL for some of them. They wear their medals and shed a few tears.

“We’ll be watching you,” Staffy tells her.

“Our baby Gretzky,” Salsa sniffs.

Syd rolls her eyes but puts up with the nickname. It isn’t until it’s just her and Jack in her room, everything in boxes, that she says, “I’m not going to the Q.”

“What?”

“I mean, if I have my way, and I’ve been told I’m pretty stubborn.” She laughs, weak and a little wet. “I can’t tell you the details but, uh, the Q isn’t the plan.”

“The draft’s in like three weeks.”

“I know.” She’s been on the phone with Pat nearly every day. “I know. I shouldn’t have told you, but I needed to tell someone.”

“But where? I’m going to the USNTDP before NCAA and you can--” he cuts himself off. “You can’t. You’re not American. Are you staying here? Are you going college after all?”

Syd shakes her head.

“But you’re going somewhere, right? You have to. Anyone will take you. They’d be stupid not to.”

Oh, Jack. Loyal, stubborn Jack who has become her best friend between late nights in the caf and bruising hockey games and sneaking hockey highlights during class.

Whatever college he plays for will be lucky to have him. So is whatever team that drafts him. Syd stares at her duffel, her name and Shattuck’s crest printed proudly on the side.

“The NHL won’t take me. Not yet, at least.”

“Syd,” he begins but she doesn’t want his platitudes or his pity, no matter how well meaning they are.

“They aren’t even talking about it,” she tells him. “I’m going to make them talk.”

“Syd,” he repeats, awed this time like he had been after their baseball brawl.

She pulls him in for a lingering hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Me too.”

#

Syd has enough time to unpack her bags in Nova Scotia and do her laundry before she and Brisson fly out to Russia. Her parents wanted to come, but they have to work and Brisson convinced them that this is more professional.

Sydney’s here to show that she’s a adult, which means she can’t be flanked by her parents in every picture taken this week. She understands optics and what she’s trying to do here, but she still wishes her mom was next to her on the plane and that her dad could give her a pep talk as they land in Moscow.

“A representative of the team will pick us up,” Brisson says, reviewing the plan as they head towards baggage claim. They only have their carry ons, but this is where they’re meeting the welcome team. Syd tugs on the end of her braid, nervous.

Around them, people speak in a multitude of languages. Some are crabby from long flights or mad from travel delays. Others are happy, their excitement grating at Syd’s ears. Most of the signs are in Cyrillic. Her brain’s too tired to try and puzzle any of them out.

“They’ll woo you for a week,” Brisson says, reclaiming her attention. “There’ll be tours and food and meetings. At the end of it, if you still want this, we negotiate.”

“”Why wouldn’t I want it? We’ve been working towards it for a whole year.”

“You’re allowed to change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Just keep an open mind, okay?”

She can tell it’s important to him so she says, “Okay,” then ducks into the bathroom. There’s an exhausted woman with two kids hanging off her arms and two young, beautiful women who pat their curls and slide shiny lip gloss over their lips. They talk to each other in Russian, too quickly for Syd to follow.

Syd changes out of her travel clothes and into something more appropriate for a first meeting. It’s not a suit or a dress, those are for later, but she changes and freshens up. She still looks like a kid, baby fat clinging to her cheeks and eyes a touch too wide, but there’s nothing to be done for it.

She finger combs her hair until it looks less like she just flew halfway across the world then joins Brisson again.

He doesn’t ask if she’s ready, which she appreciates. She’d hate having to lie to him.

Baggage claim is full of people. The conveyer belts are surrounded and there’s rows of people waiting, waving their arms and calling out greetings.She shuffles closer to Brisson, afraid she’ll be swallowed by the noise.

“Ah,” Brisson says. He sounds amused.

She follows his gaze until she sees the sign WELCOME SYDNEY in sparkly pink letters. She pauses and Ovechkin grins and wiggles the sign. Next to him, two men in suits look like the mother in the bathroom, haggard and glad the trip is nearly done.

They smile when they see Syd and she forces her feet to keep moving.

“Hello, my name is Sydney Crosby,” she says in smooth Russian. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“We look forward to your visit,” the one in the navy blue suit says. “I am Vladimir Karashenko.”

“And I am Ivan Lukin.” Black suit offers her a firm handshake. “Welcome to Moscow, Sydney Crosby.”

She smiles then turns to Ovechkin.

They stare for a long moment before Ovechkin gasps and clutches at his chest. “You don’t know who I am? That hurts, Crosby.”

“Shut up,” Syd says then darts a look at Karashenko and Lukin.

They both chuckle before pulling Brisson into a conversation so she figures she hasn’t ruined her chances of signing here.

“I know who you are,” she tells Ovechkin. Her Russian is slower now, more careful, because these aren’t words she’s practiced over and over.

“Yes, yes. I am very famous.” He tucks his sign under one arm and tries to tuck her under the other.

She weaves away from the touch.

“Your Russian is better than I thought it would be,” he says.

“This wasn’t a--” she wrinkles her nose as she searches for the word she wants. “Uh, quick decision. I’ve wanted for long time.” Not quite what she was trying to say but hopefully close enough. It’s a reminder that her Russian isn’t good even if she’s muddled along okay so far.

The smile slips from Ovechkin’s face, leaving him serious. He looks older, like a professional hockey player instead of a kid. Then he grabs Syd’s hand and says, “We’re going to be best friends after this week.”

She wonders if it’s too late to sign with Magnitogorsk instead.

#

They stop at the hotel so Sydney and Brisson can put their bags down then they’re taken to dinner. Lukin is the GM of the team. Karashenko is involved somehow, Sydney didn’t quite follow, but, more importantly, he’s fluent in both Russian and English.

“We don’t want there to be any misunderstandings,” Karashenko says as he shakes his napkin over his lap.

His English is accented, different from the rounded words of home and the twang of Shattuck. It’s something different--familiar, but still distinctly different.

“I appreciate it,” Sydney says. Then, “I’m looking forward to this week. Moscow seems like a beautiful city.”

“It is.”

They discuss their plans for the week, and Sydney’s surprised to hear how involved Ovechkin will be. Maybe she shouldn’t be. He’s their superstar and future of their franchise. They probably want to make sure the two of them can get along before offering her a contract.

It’s odd. Usually  _ she’s _ the Ovechkin in this situation, the bedrock, the one others will have to mesh with if they want a hope of making the team. She’s not sure how to act now that she’s in the other role.

“Just be yourself,” Brisson tells her once it’s just them in the hotel.

It isn’t that easy. He knows how many people don’t like Sydney. But she smiles and says, “Good night,” before closing the door that joins their rooms.

#

She wakes up to her alarm and drags herself out of bed so she can go down to the hotel gym for a workout. She’s on her own so she can’t do as much as she’d like, but it helps to wake her up and to brush away the travel cobwebs.

She pokes her head into the breakfast room on her way back upstairs, but of course this isn’t the kind of place with a continental breakfast. She showers, changes, then opens the door that connects the two rooms.

Brisson’s door is still closed but he opens it a moment later as if he was waiting.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says. “I’m starving.”

Brisson laughs and takes her across the street for breakfast.

They’re joined by Karashenko and Ovechkin an hour later. Ovechkin wheedles a pastry out of Karashenko before they leave.

“Shameless,” Karashenko says, in English for their benefit.

Ovechkin grins and licks sugar off his fingers.

She’s struck again by how young he is even though he’s a full year older than her. Maybe it’s because he’s played close to home while traveling has forced her to grow up. Maybe how they do it in Russia is better, having team pipelines so players grow up surrounded by future teammates, their organization standing in for family.

They take her to a church, the architecture and painted glass breathtaking. She doesn’t have the words, in Russian or English, to describe how she feels, standing there in something so lovingly created. Thousands of people have stood where she stood, history lingers in the air around her.

“Thank you,” she says at the end and hopes they understand.

Karashenko smiles, but Ovechkin stares, curious.

#

They go out to lunch and Sydney stares at the menu, completely baffled.

“Want help?” Ovechkin asks.

“We could’ve gone to a Western place,” Karashenko says.

This feels like a test. “It’s all new,” Syd says carefully. “I don’t know what is--” she wrinkles her nose-- “team approved.”

“Ah,” Karashenko says.

“This is why I don’t want Ovechkin’s help,” Syd says, feeling brave.

“Hey!” Ovechkin squawks.

The adults laugh then turn back to their conversation.

“I can help,” Ovechkin tells her, quietly, like it’s a secret. Then, “You can call me Sasha.”

“Syd,” she tells him.

#

After lunch they go to the training facility. Lukin is there and he hands her a small stack of clothes, shorts, t-shirts, socks, sports bra. He eyes her shoes and nods. She changes, aware that she’s wearing the Dynamo logo on every article of clothing. But they also put enough thought into this to order her a sports bra. She smiles and meets Lukin and Brisson outside the locker room.

Sasha’s in a matching outfit.

They work out together, a run followed by agility drills then a brutal session in the weight room. Syd’s beaming at the end of it. She can’t wait until they let her skate for them.

They shower. It’s not the first time Sydney’s shared a shower room with guys. It’s her first time with just one other guy. They stand two shower heads apart. She doesn’t look. Her skin doesn’t prickle which means he doesn’t look either.

There are more Dynamo branded clothes. She puts them on. Lukin has a protein shake for each of them when they join him outside the locker room. She drinks hers in five big swallows. Sasha jokingly tries to give her his then laughs when he’s caught.

She smiles back. “We do again tomorrow.”

“It’s summer,” he groans, but he glances at Lukin, hopeful.

“Yes. And tonight, you should stay in the dorms.”

She likes that Lukin looks at her instead of Brisson as he waits for an answer.

“Thank you,” she says.

She’s going to sign here but it doesn’t stop her from wanting to know everything. It’ll be easier to reassure her parents and easier to prepare if she knows what to expect.

They bring her across the street to a building that reminds her of the dormitory at Shattuck. Only this has an in-house cafeteria and a fitness center and a small pool and a sauna and an entertainment center with walls of DVDs and games. She knows she’s staring but she can’t stop.

She follows Sasha up three flights of stairs to a hallway full of rooms. He leads her to a room with two beds and bare walls. There’s a neat stack of clothes on one bed along with sheets, a comforter, one blanket, and a set of towels.

She can’t help but think that at the end of her week here she’ll have an entire wardrobe made up of Dynamo gear.

“This is your room,” Sasha says. “You can tell because it’s boring.”

He laughs and drags her three doors down to another room with two beds, but the walls are plastered with posters. There are hockey players and half-naked women. The closet is stuffed full of clothes.

“My room,” Sasha says even though it’s obvious.

“You’ve already moved in?”

“It’s Revver’s.” He taps a poster of a woman wearing nothing but strategically placed diamonds.

She catches his grin. “You’re full of shit,” she tells him in English.

“Shit,” he repeats then flops down on his bed and gives her a crash course in Russian swears.

The first time she remembers to look up, Brisson and Lukin are gone.

#

They play ping pong and air hockey until she’s fluent in swearing and Sasha’s clutching his sides from laughing at her too much. When they’re done, he brings her to the dining hall and fills her plate with foods she’s never seen.

It’s fun, almost like hockey camp except there’s only the two of them and so far they haven’t played any hockey. Maybe that’s why she follows him up to his room and lets him play with her hair. It’s long now, and her brush is in her room, too far away, but he combs his fingers through it. She tips her head back and sighs.

“You like?” he asks as if she isn’t half-asleep, hypnotized by his touch.

“It’s okay,” she says because she has  _ some _ dignity.

He flips her hair over her face and she laughs before shaking it out of her eyes. He braids her hair, too loose and a little lopsided, but she gives him her hair tie anyway.

“We hear about Sydney Crosby even in Russia,” Sasha says. “I never thought you would come here.”

“I want the RSL,” she says. “Pat give me three teams, and I choose Moscow.”

“Trying to show me up on my own team?” He laughs, but she hears the truth behind his words.

She twists so they’re facing each other, knees touching. “Want to play  _ with _ you.”

She isn’t here to take his place or have her star outshine his. She came here so she  _ wouldn’t _ be the story. She doesn’t know if she should tell him that or how she’d even manage.

“Yes, everyone wants to play with me.”

“I mean it,” she says, because he’s still joking and she’s being serious. “Truth. I want--” she breaks off with a huff because she doesn't have the words she needs.

Sasha covers her hands with his. She startles at the touch then stares, eyes wide. His hands aren’t big enough to dwarf hers and it makes her smile.

“I center you,” she says. “You score, I play defense.”

“Hey!”

She smiles and tugs on his hands. “Movie.”

“Or.” He fishes into his pockets and produces a key ring. “Skate?”

“ _ Oh _ ,” she breathes. She nods, eager. “Yes. Please.”

#

There’s only the two of them, and Sasha scrounges up some skates and sticks and a single puck. The skates are a half-size too small and the stick is  _ wrong _ but it’s still hockey. They play keep away and show off for each other in a darkened arena.

They only turn on enough lights to see. It means they probably shouldn’t be here, but Sydney wants to play hockey too badly to care.

#

The next morning when they meet Pat and Lukin outside the dorms, Lukin eyes Sasha as if he’s an errant child and holds out his hand.

Unrepentant, Sasha hands the keys over.

“Would you like to play some real hockey?” Lukin asks Sydney.

“I always want to play hockey.”

#

Today is different than last night. There are coaches and trainers and even some other players. They put her through skating drills and passing drills. They test her shot--speed, accuracy, and different types. She skates through obstacle courses and races other players.

They want to see everything she can do and she gives them her best.

They eat lunch then it’s time for more tests, these ones off the ice. They test her speed, her quickness and agility. They put her in the weight room to test her strength. She does everything they ask and at the end of it she’s exhausted.

“Good,” Lukin says as she sways into Sasha. “No more late night adventures.”

Syd’s pretty sure she’ll fall asleep as soon as she’s horizontal. Maybe even before then.

Sasha pokes her during dinner to keep her awake, chattering in non-stop Russian even though she doesn’t understand a word he says.

Afterward, they put a movie on in the rec room.

She’s asleep in seconds.

She wakes up to a dark room, the credits playing on the TV. Sasha’s slumped against her side, breathing deep and heavy. If she stretches out on the couch, she could fall back asleep.

Then her stomach rumbles, loud and insistent.

_ Sleep _ , her body hopes.

_ Food _ , her stomach demands.

She shakes Sasha’s shoulder. He groans and turns his face into her shoulder.

“Sasha,” she whispers. He blinks at her, groggy. “Sasha, I’m hungry.”

He stares at her long enough that she wonders if maybe she spoke in English by accident.

“Food,” she says.

“Yes,” he croaks. He rubs his throat as he sits up.

He turns off the TV and they stumble towards a new room. It’s off the rec room and has a kitchenette, two fridges, and cabinets full of food; protein bars and granola bars and snacks she’s never heard of.

She crushes a protein bar then devours a bowl of yogurt with granola. She ate too fast, because her stomach is full, but she’s still hungry. She drinks a Gatorade then takes a protein bar with her back to her room.

Sasha walks her there like he thinks she’ll get lost.

“Thank you,” she says. “Tonight was fun.”

He smiles at her, sleepy. He says something she doesn’t understand then walks three doors down to his room.

#

The week is a whirlwind of hockey and sight-seeing and sleeping. She almost forgets that this is basically a tryout for her future career. But then she and Pat meet with Moscow’s management and her nerves return full force.

They offer her a two-year contract. The money they offer makes Pat scoff. Syd watches as Pat plants his forearms on the table and argues that she’s worth more than that. She can’t help but stare. SHe’s never seen Pat work before, not like this.

At the end of it, Pat’s pleased with the terms of the contract, and she’s happy just to know she has a place to play next year.

She’s given a summary of her physical tests. It’s a thick packet of paper. The places she needs to improve are highlighted with exercises and drills for her to use to get better. She can’t wait to show Andy.

There are pictures as she signs her contract. There are even more as she pulls a Dynamo sweater over her head.

“You’ll come back early,” Lukin tells her. “You and Sasha will do promotions.”

They do a few now, pictures of them in their jerseys, shaking hands. A few of them on the ice.

The team releases the news of the signing while Syd and Pat fly home. She understands now why they flew into an airport farther from home. It doesn’t stop the reporters from planting themselves outside her house.

“I can talk to them,” she offers.

“We don’t want to encourage this behavior,” Pat says. “I’ll set up an interview. You should hug your parents and settle back in. The summer will be gone before you know it.”

“Thank you,” she tells him. “For everything.”

“Just doing my job so you can do yours.”

#

Jack texts her,  _ RUSSIA????? _

She sends back,  _ They wanted me _ , and knows he’ll understand.

#

She sits down with Sportsnet for an interview. She wears a suit. Her mom pulled her hair back so no one can accuse her of hiding behind it.

“I guess you won’t be going to the QMJHL draft,” the reporter says.

“I won’t,” she agrees. “I know I haven’t chosen the traditional path, but I think everyone can agree that I’m not a traditional player.”

“But the Russian Superleague?”

Sydney smiles and sits a little straighter in her chair. “Right now, they’re the only professional league which accepts women.”

“It’s a league of  _ men _ , and you’re still a girl.”

She smooths her smile into ‘media flat’. “I’m a hockey player, and I’m grateful for the opportunity that the RSL and Dynamo Moscow have given me.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter this week! I'm going to be out of town Friday through Monday and I'm not sure how much internet I'll have so I wanted to make sure ya'll got your chapter. 
> 
> I signed up for Fandom Trumps Hate as a writer so this is your chance if you want to influence the next story I write.
> 
> And now for actual story notes (apparently I am chatty today, sorry):  
> Everything I know about Russian hockey has come from watching a couple IIHF tournaments and reading Evgeny Kuznetsov’s Player’s Tribune article. Apologies if I got somet things wrong. Additionally, basically everyone is an OC because I felt more comfortable constructing personalities and allies and rivals with people I made up instead of real people. 
> 
> Thank you all for the support so far. I love seeing people enjoy reading the series, because I’ve had so much fun writing it.

The summer passes too quickly and yet not quickly enough. Before she knows it, her bags are packed and she’s at the airport saying goodbye to her family. Even though Russia is what she wants, she still tears up.

She promises her mom that she’ll stay safe and her dad that she’ll stay focused and Taylor that she’ll think about her every day. Then she wipes her eyes, picks up her carry-on and heads for her gate.

She keeps the brim of her hat tipped down and she slouches in her seat, pretending to sleep. No one bothers her.

When she lands in Moscow she’s antsy from sitting for so long, hungry because the airplane food wasn’t great, and tired even though she hasn’t done anything all day. 

She’s also in Russia alone for the first time and it makes her pause, nerves finally hitting her. She’s in  _ Russia _ . Not for a visit or a camp but to live. To play hockey.

Someone bumps into her, because she'd stopped in the middle of the gate. It’s enough to make her feet move again. She finds baggage claim by following the signs. She’s not sure which belt will have her bags until she spots Sasha lurking near Baggage Claim 3 with a lanky kid.

Evgeni Malkin.

She would’ve played with him if she’d chosen Magnitogorsk. She watches as he hunches his shoulders to make himself smaller. It would’ve been fun to play with him, but off the ice, she needs Sasha’s big personality as a distraction.

Malkin spots her first, offering up a dorky wave.

Her answering wave is just as bad.

Then, of course, Sasha spots her. He sweeps his arms over his head as if she’s still on the plane and he’s flagging it down.

“I hate you,” she says when she reaches them.

“That’s not very nice. Zhenya, tell her to be nice to me.”

Zhenya - Malkin - holds his fist out for Syd to bump.

“See if I carry any of your bags,” Sasha says but he pulls her in for a rib-crushing hug.

And, when her bags come, he makes sure to take the biggest one.

#

“Is this allowed?” Sydney asks as they unpack her bags.

“Boys in your room?” Sasha waggles his eyebrows. It makes his face look stupider than usual.

She points to Malkin. “He doesn’t play for Moscow.”

“We snuck him in. Like spies.”

Sydney huffs. She’s not sure why she thought she’d get a serious answer out of him.

Malkin doesn’t talk much but neither does she. They both listen to Sasha chatter as they unpack. Occasionally, they smile at each other or roll their eyes. Sasha catches them once and pouts. It’s fun.

Later that night, they hang out in Sasha’s room. They’re all crammed into Sasha's bed, limbs overlapping so none of them fall out.

“What’s it like?” she asks. “You have place if good enough. A promise.” 

“Safe,” Sasha answers. “But hard. For Zhenya. For me, it’s easy to be good enough.”

“Fuck off,” Malkin mutters.

Sasha laughs and plans what they’ll do tomorrow between workouts and eating. When he pops out to use the bathroom, Malkin taps Sydney’s shoulders.

“It’s hard,” he says. “They own you. My family has a house, and I have hockey, but I only have one dream.”

“Oh,” she says. Having a path sounds nice but not as nice when they put roadblocks up at every fork.

“It’s good,” he adds. “I don’t complain. I’m very lucky. But I don’t know if I’ll ever play in the NHL.”

“Me too.”

He brushes her hair out of her face, and it brings them closer together. His hand lingers, and his eyes are dark, serious. Her Russian is passable, and his English is non-existent, but they understand each other.

Her eyes dip down to his mouth. His lips part, surprised. A flush spreads across her cheeks, but before anything can happen, Sasha bursts into the room.

He drops himself between them, knocking Malkin’s hand away.

It’s probably for the best.

#

Hanging out with Sasha and Malkin is fun. They have enough history for inside jokes, but they include her in them and even make some of their own.

Sasha lets her choose what they do after dinner and she grins and pulls up an NHL game on her laptop. It’s one of her favorites from back when the Canadiens dominated the league.

“Hockey,” Sasha groans but he sits almost on top of her on the bed.

Malkin sits on the other side of her, and she’s warm tucked between the two of them.

“It’s good practice,” she says. She points to the Canadiens. “Home team.”

“Shitty team,” Sasha corrects then yelps when she pinches him.

“Away team,” Malkin tells her, pointing to the Leafs.

Her hockey vocabulary is pretty good, and she keeps up a running commentary, only faltering when a word or phrase escapes her. When Sasha answers she has to look at Malkin to confirm that it’s right and not Sasha messing with her.

Midway through the second period, the Leafs are on the PK when they take a delay of game penalty. 

“Hey,” she says, poking Malkin. “How do you say 5-on-3 in Russian?”

He stares at her for a moment before saying, “5-on-3.”

Syd doesn’t know why, but she dissolves into giggles. She tips over onto Sasha , shoulders shaking as she laughs. Malkin stares, baffled, like he doesn’t know what he did.

“5-on-3,” she repeats and cracks herself up all over again.

“Idiot,” Malkin says, but it’s fond.

“No, I’m Syd,” she says, pointing to herself.

He catches her hand and points her finger at his chest. “Zhenya.”

“Zhenya,” she says. She lays her palm over his heart.

Before the moment grows too heavy, Sasha grabs her other hand and slaps it against his chest. “Best hockey player in the RSL.”

“Ha,” Syd says. “Only until my first game.”

“Big words, Syd.”

“I’ll back them up.”

#

Zhenya can’t stay long, but that’s probably for the best. He returns to Magnitogorsk, taking Syd’s distracting feelings with him, and Syd meets the rest of her team.

She meets them all at practice which is good, because she communicates best on the ice, but it’s still a lot at once. Instead of there being too much space with only her and Sasha, it’s crowded.

She almost elbows Volkov in the head as she pulls her shirt over her head. 

The locker room falls deafeningly quiet, a silence she’s come to recognize as  _ oh shit, the girl is taking her clothes off _ .

She looks up, shirt dangling from her fingers. She arches her eyebrows.

“They’ve never seen a naked woman before,” Sasha says, loudly, and with the slightest edge to his words. “They’ll stop staring soon.”

“I’m not  _ naked _ . It’s hockey time, not shower time.”

Someone, Khtey she thinks, makes a strangled sound.

“You have your own shower now,” Sasha tells her.

“ _ Now _ ?” Alekno, their captain demands.

Sasha doesn’t cower at his tone which either makes him brave or stupid. 

Syd pulls her spandex on. “We here to shower or play hockey?”

“Eager, rookie,” Volkov says.

“ _ Hockey _ ,” she says.

Volkov laughs and pats the top of her french braid.

#

Once she’s in uniform, she looks just like the rest of them. Well, the end of her braid sticks out the end of her helmet, and she’s smaller than most of her teammates, but that will change with time.

Her teammates clump, talking a mile a minute, too fast and too many new words for her to keep up. She chews on her mouthguard and stares at the ice as she waits to be told what to do. The ice seems  _ huge _ , reaching in every direction. What if she isn’t ready for it? What if her conditioning wasn’t good enough?

Coach Biyaletdinov blows his whistle and everyone jumps to attention. 

They crowd close, no one so much as whispering as Coach talks. It’s all Russian which she knew it would be, but she didn’t realize how much Sasha had been babying her until she hears him talk full speed. She catches a word here and a word there, but not enough to follow. At one point he pauses and everyone turns to look at her.

“Uh, hi?” she says.

Then Coach keeps talking. She tries not to panic too much, but something must show on her face because Berezhko claps her on the shoulder once Coach is done talking. 

“Work hard,” he says in thickly accented English. “Don’t complain. Don’t fuck up.”

“I can handle that,” she says.

He smiles at her. “Hear good things.”

They warm-up then Coach brings them back in to explain a drill. Syd does her best to listen, but she doesn’t understand until the first two groups do the drill.

Is this her future? Forever a step behind?

Once she steps into the drill she feels good. The ice is bigger, but it gives her more space to move. She weaves in and out of the cones, accepting passes while in motion then dishing back before her next turn.

It isn’t a complicated drill, and it helps settle her nerves. She’s here to play hockey and she’s good at it.

When they move to the next drill, she hangs near the back so she can see how it’s done. It rankles not to be the first in the drill, but she doesn’t know how it’s supposed to go and, honestly, it’s probably best that she isn’t jumping in first. She’s a foreigner and young and a girl. She needs to earn her place on the team.

#

At the end of practice, she tugs on their assistant coach’s sleeve. “Ice closed?”

Coach Vanakov shakes his head.

“Practice?”

“Practice is over,” he says. He points to where everyone is filing off the ice.

“Extra?” she asks. “Ten minutes?”

He smiles, indulgent, and she knows she can stay on. She grabs a couple pucks and hops back on the ice. She practices banking the puck off the boards, getting a feel for the bigger ice and new angles.

Ten minutes turn into twenty. She’d stay longer but someone shouts at her from the bench.

“Shower!” Sasha yells.

“Five minutes!”

“Food.”

And, well, she is hungry. The ice will be here tomorrow. She picks up her pucks and drops them in the bucket. Sasha, hair wet and in a Dynamo tracksuit, ushers her down to the locker room.

Despite her extra time on the ice or maybe because of it, the guys are half-dressed in the locker room. Some of them in just a towel, skin still damp from the shower. Some of them are completely naked. 

Syd quickly stares at the floor. The floor is safe. No surprise dicks. She doesn’t know why she thought Dynamo would be the same as Shattuck. Here she’s playing with  _ men _ .

She feels young and awkward as her cheeks burn. She pulls her jersey over her head. She sits to untie her skates. People talk around her, but she doesn’t try to follow. She just undresses, stripping down to her spandex and sports bra.

She grabs her towel and shower caddy and slips into the shower room. There’s a curtain up on the far end which she figures is for her. It partitions off a single showerhead, and she steps inside. She turns the water on before stripping all the way down. 

She showers quickly, but there are still only two people in the locker room when she’s done, Sasha and Alekno.

“Lunch?” she asks as she pulls her underwear on underneath her towel.

“Yes,” Sasha answers.

“In dorm?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to wait. Won’t get lost. Tomorrow I be late too.”

She’s in her Dynamo tracksuit before Sasha will look at her. “Again?”

“Not everyone is born superstar like you.”

Alekno snorts. “Don’t fill your head with Sasha’s lies.”

Syd grins as Sasha squawks in outrage.

The long table in the team cafeteria is mostly full when they arrive so there are no two seats side by side. It means she can’t sit with Sasha and, she’s disappointed to realize, she can’t sit with Berezhko either.

She avoids the empty seat next to Khtey and sits between Volkov and Sokolov. 

Sokolov eyes her plate, impressed.

“I work hard,” she says then winces at how defensive she sounds.

“You’re not afraid of Russian food,” he says. “It’s good. Sometimes it’s a problem with new players.”

“I’m not problem,” she tells him.

Sokolov’s eyebrows climb towards his receding hairline.

Volkov laughs and nudges Syd’s arm. “Eat quickly and you’ll have time for a nap before the afternoon skate.”

“ _ Nap, _ ” she moans and shovels food into her mouth.

#

The second day is brutal. Her entire body aches, her eyes won’t stay open, and chewing seems like a monumental effort. The guys around her are talking, low and quiet in deference to the time of day. She doesn’t even bother trying to follow. 

It means she’’s in a weird bubble. The static of her thoughts her only company as she devours some kind of egg bake, yogurt, granola, and a bowl of fruit.

It doesn’t feel like enough, but she’s afraid she won’t be able to move on the ice this morning if she eats any more. She needs to keep snacks in her room for late night hunger pangs and early morning snacks. 

She pokes her stomach and tries to remember if she was ever this hungry before.

“More?” Volkov asks.

“After practice.”

He hands her some kind of breakfast pastry. “More.” This time it isn’t a question.

“Try to make me slow.”

“I’m an old man. I need every advantage I can get.”

She rolls her eyes. “You not old.”

He laughs at her so she scowls and eats the pastry. It’s good, and still a little warm.

#

No one fusses when she changes today. It helps that she wears her sports bra and spandex to the rink. She wonders what will happen the first time she has to change from a suit to her game clothes.

They start practice with speed drills from one end of the ice to the other. Syd isn’t the fastest but no one has the quickness she does on her first two strides. She’ll have to work on her overall speed, though. With a bigger rink, there’s more space for people to catch her.

Once they’re tired, they work their passes with their coaches barking every time they’re sloppy.

Sasha streaks up the ice and Syd still puts the puck right on his tape. Volkov whistles, impressed. “I didn’t know they taught passing in North America.”

It takes her a minute to parse what he said then she laughs, a little mean. She’s a girl. Her first coach tried to feed her some bullshit about passing coming more naturally to her because girls are best suited to support roles. He was wrong, of course, but her teammates liked her better when she set them up for goals. She can score, but she doesn’t base her worth as a player in her goal tally.

“Guess I’m special,” she says.

It’s Volkov’s turn to laugh, sharp and surprised.

“Crosby!” Coach shouts.

It’s her turn to race up the ice. Khtey’s pass is in her skates, but she kicks it to her stick without breaking stride.

Sasha wolf whistles.

Khtey scowls at her.

#

Today after practice Volkov hangs back with her.

She eyes him with suspicion. “Thought you old.”

He saucers a puck to her and she shrugs. She won’t turn down someone to practice with. They work on their passes, cross-ice and off the boards and in front of the net mouth. The first time he taps the puck into the empty net she gasps then wags her finger at him.

He’s surprised for a minute before he laughs and snow showers her.

She still has water clinging to her lashes when they troop back to the locker room. It’s just the two of them, and she’s afraid he’ll be weird but doesn’t want to make it weirder by looking over at him. She strips most of the way then retreats to her curtained stall like yesterday.

Because she knows no one’s waiting on her, she takes the time to do a complete wash of her hair. Volkov’s sitting in his stall, dressed, when she comes out.

“You don’t have to wait,” she says, the same thing she told Sasha yesterday.

“Team,” he says as if it’s that simple.

She changes and wrings her hair out the best she can with a damp towel.

#

They’re running a 5-on-5 drill with the same team taking defensive faceoffs until they can break out of their zone. Syd’s out against Khtey who has five inches and forty pounds on her. She has more teeth so at least she has something going for her. They’re both centers, and he’s her competition the way Alekno isn’t. Their captain is their captain, and he has skill, experience, and seniority. The first line is his.

She has a chance to center the second line if she can prove herself to her coaches.

She loses the faceoff against Khtey which isn’t the best start. She drops back to play defense and pesters Berezhko into a turnover.

She skates up the ice, Khtey turning to skate backwards so he can keep her in his view. Remembering the drills they did all of yesterday, she slows her pace so he’ll slow his to match. She pushes the puck forward, a temptation.

He goes for the poke check, but she pushes the puck through his legs and takes off, leaving him to scramble after her.

One-in-one against Vasilev, and she roofs the puck, high glove side.

“Bitch,” Khtey snarls as he skates by.

He says it in English to make sure she’ll understand.

It sparks something dark and angry in her and she comes to an abrupt stop, ice shavings flying. “I’m sorry,” she says in clipped English. “I don’t understand you.”

Maybe she  _ is _ a bitch because she thickens her words, adopting a stereotypical and  _ bad _ Russian accent.

Khety takes a step towards her then suddenly Sokolov is between them, his large frame blocking Khety from her sight.

“What was that?” Volkov asks when she skates back into line.

“Huh?” she asks.

Volkov sighs like he knows she’s faking but he lets her. She takes a deep breath and turns her attention back to the drill.

#

They finish practice with a scrimmage. Sydney’s team is down by one with an extra skating drill on the line. Volkov passes to her, a long stretch up the ice. It isn’t a breakaway because Grankin is there, his stick on the ice.

He doesn’t overcrowd her like Khtey, because he’s learned from their teammate. But giving her space is just as dangerous, especially with this kind of room.

She comes at the goal from an angle which forces Vasilev to seal his post and open up the other half of the net. She drives to the net and both men commit. She lifts the puck over Vasilev’s blocker and under Grankin’s legs. Then, spinning around Grankin, she knocks the puck out of the air and into the wide open net.

The whole thing takes maybe three seconds and the rink is  _ silent _ afterwards.

Then Grankin laughs, incredulous, and says something she doesn’t catch.

Vasiliev echoes it as he taps her ankle with his paddle. By the time she reaches Sasha, everyone’s said the word to her. 

She tugs on Sasha’s jersey. “What’re they saying?”

“They’re calling you Gretzka.” He smiles as he pats her helmet. “Our little Gretzky.”

_ I’m not him _ she wants to say but Gretzka is better than bitch so she keeps her mouth shut.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it has been forever since I last posted a chapter. My goodness. Happy posting day, I hope all is well with you :)))

Their first day off comes at the end of training camp. Sasha calls it decision day. Apparently, the whole coaching staff spends the day arguing for who should make the team and who should be cut.

Syd takes advantage of the day to call home. Her English is rusty at first as she tells her mom about her teammates (nice) and hockey (good but hard) and the food (different but filling). She’s found her words again by the time she talks to her dad. She loses them, talking to Taylor.

It’s a good thing she doesn't need to say much as Taylor chatters about her school and classes and friends. She tells Syd that at recess when they play hockey, she captains Dynamo Moscow instead of the Canadiens, and Syd’s throat grows tight. 

Once the phone call is over, Syd stays in her room, knees pulled up to her chest and with tears in her eyes. No one bothers her which she’s grateful for even as it makes her miss Elizabeth and Jack with a sharp ache.

She calls Jack once she’s wiped the tears from her eyes. It’s pointless because as soon as he says “Croz!” new tears rise up.

“How’s the USNTDP?” she asks, only the smallest waver in her voice.

“Red, white, and blue, baby.”

She laughs and listens to him talk about his teammates and his coaches and the new system he has to learn. 

“They’ve got me on a fucking unreal diet,” he says. “Apparently I’m too small.”

“You and me both. I don’t think I thought through what playing with men would be like.”

It’s the first time she’s talked about Russia. Jack is quiet for a long moment before he says “But it’s okay? They’re not--it’s not--”

“It’s fine,” Syd says to put him out of his misery.

“Just fine?” His voice gentles. “Not everything you were hoping for?”

“It’s a means to an end.”

“Syd--”

“Tell me more about your hockey. Must suck only playing with Americans. No competition.”

“Hey! You take that back!”

She laughs, loud and honking, as he argues for why America is a hockey powerhouse.

#

She makes the team and she’s able to keep number 87. Sasha tells her it’s because she’s too young for anyone else to want the number as if he hadn’t played for Dynamo at sixteen and isn’t only a year older than her. 

Alekno hosts a team barbeque at his house, and it takes her longer than it should to understand because, “House?” she asks Volkov. She points in what she hopes is the direction of their dorms.

“House,” Volkov repeats. “The dorms are for the young players and everyone the night before a game. No distractions.”

“Oh.”

She’s not sure why she thought they all lived in the dorms full-time. Clearly, some of her teammates have families. It would be weird to keep them apart for the whole season.

Volkov grins and ruffles her hair. “You’re not only my kid. You’re the most work though.”

“Hey!” She kicks him, lightly, in the shin.

#

She meets Volkov’s wife and kids at the backyard party. He has three kids, two boys and a girl. The girl is the youngest and her blonde curls are pinned back with a thousand clips that glint in the sun.

“We’ll always know where she is,” Volkov says as she toddles off.

“Dasha helped get her ready,” Mrs. Volkova says as one of the boys chases after his sister. The older one wanders off to play with the other kids.

It’s been less than five minutes and Syd’s overwhelmed. She smiles, polite, and wonders if there’s a quiet room she can hide in for the next two hours.

“Gretzka!” Mikhailov pounds her back and presses a cup of clear liquid into her hands. “You made it!” He laughs as if all the players still staying in the dorms weren’t shuttled here.

She eyes the drink then notices how many of her teammates are staring at her. It’s not water then. She takes a sip and can’t help the face she makes. At least she doesn’t choke or spit it out or anything.

Her captain suddenly appears at her side. He plucks the cup from her hands. It’s almost a relief to have him take it away, even if it’ll only lead to more baby rookie jokes.

Alekno takes a swig and  _ he _ spits it out all over the grass.

“What shit is this?” he demands. He hands the cup to Mikhailov and forces the man to chug it. Then he pats Syd’s cheek. “You deserve better.”

He leaves her, only to return with a new cup. She doesn’t think anyone’s going to rescue her from this one. She takes a cautious sip. At least it doesn’t burn her eyes like the other stuff. 

Alekno grins and claps her on the back. “Gretzka!” he exclaims.

“Gretzka!” their team choruses. 

It must be some kind of sign because suddenly they’re all drinking.

Syd sticks close to Sasha, hoping to pour some of her drink into his cup, but there’s never an opportunity. They’re surrounded by people all the time. People who talk too loud and too fast.

She has a pounding headache by the time food is ready. It means her smile is more like a grimace when they stick her and Sasha at the kids’ table. Sasha of course laughs then proceeds to hold court with all their teammates’ children.

Syd eats, mouth constantly full so she doesn’t have to talk.

By the time they’re back at the dorms, she’s exhausted, wrung out from an afternoon of socializing in an unfamiliar language. She shakes her head when Sasha asks if she wants to hang out with the rest of the young guys.

Her room is blessedly quiet, and she stretches out on her bed, her head empty, until she falls asleep.

#

She hangs out with the dorm-guys the next night. As tempting as her bed or a long hot shower is, she knows she can’t be a recluse. She has to be a good teammate and that means watching some TV show with them. 

Someone’s shot in the opening scene but at the end of the episode, she’s not sure whether the show is some kind of cop procedural or drama. 

At one point, Sasha pokes her side. “Funny, yes?”

She stares at him to convey  _ I have no fucking clue what’s happening right now _ . She turns her attention back to the TV and Sasha doesn’t poke her again.

#

Everything’s better when she’s on the ice. She’s still a step behind, needing to see a drill before she can emulate it, but she catches up faster than she does off the ice. 

The first time Coach puts her and Sasha together in a scrimmage is magic. She battles Khtey for the puck and once she wins it, Sasha takes off. She sauces the puck over Grankin’s stick, and Sasha has a breakaway. 

Two shifts later, she and Sasha have a 2-on-1 against Grankin. They pass back and forth, gaining on the net. When they’re on the net mouth, Syd has the puck and Grankin commits to her shot. 

She grins and slings the puck over to Sasha who taps it in.

“Fuck you,” Grankin grumbles.

Sasha blows him a kiss.

#

Coach puts them on a line together in their first preseason game. They combine to score three goals, and the press swarm Sasha’s stall. 

A few brave ones approach Syd who looks up, startled as the first microphone is held out to her. They do know she doesn’t speak enough Russian to converse with a child let alone reporters, right?

“Hello,” she says, wary.

“Hello. Tonight was your first game. How did it feel?”

“Good,” she answers, slowly. “I always want to play hockey.”

Someone rattles off a question too quickly for her to follow.

Her face burns as she’s forced to ask, “Say again?”

“Is Russian hockey different than Canadian hockey?” the reporter repeats, so slowly that shame burns her cheeks even hotter.

All her media training is useless now that she doesn’t have a strong command of the language she’s using.

“Hockey is hockey,” she offers. When no one looks impressed, she expands on her answer. “Ice is bigger. More space, more speed.” Her tongue feels too heavy, her brain painfully slow compared to how she felt on the ice, untethered and  _ fast _ .

She glances at Sasha, hoping for a save, but he doesn’t notice her looking.

She’s asked another question, something about her line’s success tonight. 

“All Sasha,” she says. Then, nudging Volkov with her skate, “Little bit Volkov.”

“Little bit!” her other winger squawks. He slides closer to her and takes over the interview, allowing her to relax.

When it’s over, and she’s free to change and shower, she decides to be quicker next game. If she’s in the shower before the media’s allowed in then they can’t ask her questions. But she also needs a fallback plan in case she can’t dodge the reporters. 

Here, she can rely on her old media training. Back at the dorm, she writes out a list of English phrases she’d use in her scrums. She’ll ask someone to help her translate them so she can memorize them for the future.

#

She’s looking forward to Magnitogorsk’s visit even though Coach isn’t playing her in the game. Khtey has the opportunity to center what Sydney already considers  _ her _ line. Selfishly, she hopes Sasha doesn’t play as well Khtey as he did with her.

At morning skate, she watches as Khtey takes line rushes with her line and she grinds her teeth into her mouthguard. When they score, Khtey smirks at her.

“It was a fucking empty net,” she mutters in English.

Grankin, also a scratch tonight, looks over at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Khtey pulls Sasha into a hug and slaps his helmet. Sasha beams at him, and Syd feels betrayed even though she knows that isn’t fair. 

She skates with the other scratches so they don’t have the full day off, but it isn’t a real practice. She wants to dig her skates into the ice, knock some people into the boards, bang home a few goals. 

She’s made the team but she wants to secure her place on it, and she can’t do that on the sidelines.

She’s frustrated when practice winds to a close and her mood doesn’t improve as her teammates shout over each other as they make plans for lunch. Syd can’t follow all the yelling and half-conversations, and she scowls as Grankin pushes her out of the way so he can, loudly, make his point to his d-partner.

They take so long deciding that Magnitogorsk takes the ice for their practice. 

She spots Zhenya and skates over to say hi, tapping his stick with hers.

He grins when he sees her. “Sydney!”

He hugs her which earns him a few weird looks from his teammates.

“You busy before game?” she asks.

“Just nap. Eat.”

“Together?” she asks. Then, at his wide-eyed expression, quickly says, “”Food! Food together. Not nap.” She’s blushing, embarrassed, and considers running back to Canada where she’ll never have to face him again.

“Not eat with team?” he asks.

“See every day.”

Zhenya smiles at her again and her traitorous cheeks heat up even more. “I’m special?”

“Lies.”

He laughs and pats her helmet. “I am the most special. Sasha will be so sad.”

“Maybe I eat alone,” she snaps, stretched too thin for even friendly teasing.

The smile slips from Zhenya’s face. “Alone? Team is--”

“Team good. Everything good. Practice. Bye!”

She tries to skate away, but Zhenya catches her wrist. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Lunch together. Will you wait here?”

There’s a kitchen so she can grab a snack to hold her over, and there’s a video room she can camp in until Zhenya’s done.

“Yes. Text?”

He nods.

“Gretzka!”

Syd turns to see Volkov searching the ice for her.

“Gretzka?” Zhenya repeats.

“Like Gretzky.”

Zhenya frowns. “But you’re Sydney.”

“I know. But,” she shrugs. Zhenya’s played sports long enough to know what it’s like.

“Sydney,” he says, and it’s pathetic how hearing him say her name makes her tear up. He looks like he wants to hug her or say something else but Volkov shouts “Gretzka!” again and she doesn’t dare linger.

She appears at Volkov’s side and grins as he startles.

“You need a bell.”

She flips him off and heads down the tunnel.

She showers, ignoring the locker room chatter, and changes into a clean set of Dynamo gear. She rubs her towel through her hair, brushes it out, then wrings it dry as best she can. Half the team leaves the locker room, pushing and shoving each other as they go.

Syd flips her hair and runs the towel through it again.

“You’re so slow,” Sasha whines. “No one cares about your hair.”

“Go without me. I eat here.”

“Gretzka,” Volkov says. “Sasha is stupid. Ignore him and come to lunch.”

“I watch video.”

“Gretzka.” Now Alekno sounds disapproving.

She huffs and turns to Berezhko so she can speak English. “I know Sasha is stupid. But I want to review tape. If I’m not playing tonight then I need to get a full practice in. Weight room, video, everything. I’ll still eat but you shouldn’t wait for me.”

There’s a pause before Berezhko translates. 

Sasha rolls his eyes which means it’s probably a fairly accurate translation.

“See you later,” she says then drops her towel in the hamper and flees for the weight room.

She has a decent workout, as good as she can without a spotter. She makes a protein shake and drinks it in the shower. She takes her time washing her hair and dries it the best she can with her towel. Again.

It’s silly because it’s just Zhenya. She still braids her hair and deliberates over whether or not to wear a baseball cap. By the time she’s dressed, her phone pings with a message with Zhenya.

She meets him in the parking lot, her in her Dynamo gear and him in his Metallurg gear. He smells like cologne, and she feels a blush creeping up her cheeks again. 

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

They stand there for a moment, each of them staring before Syd says, “I don’t know good places.”

“We can walk,” he says. “We’ll stop if something looks good.”

“Okay,” she agrees even though that sounds less like two hockey players hunting for food and more like something she’s not sure she wants to name.

They head down the street away from the dormitory and the hockey rink. She spares a minute to hope that they don’t run into her teammates.

A couple storefronts down is a bakery, and Syd pauses in front of a display of cakes and other sweets.

Zhenya laughs and tugs on her arm. “After lunch, I’ll buy you dessert. But first, real food.”

“It  _ is _ real,” Syd says but she allows him to lead her away. Then the rest of what he said registers. “You buy?”

“Yes,” he says, and she recognizes the stubborn look on his face.

“But I ask!” 

They pause in the middle of the sidewalk so he can stare at her, studying her face as if he’s looking for answers. “Next time, if I ask then I buy?”

She shrugs. “Next time?”

His smile returns. “Yes. I’m taking you to the  _ best _ place.”

“It’s not competition.”

“You only say that because you’re losing.” He pokes his tongue out, teasing.

She narrows her eyes. “Lucky I’m not on ice tonight.”

Zhenya just laughs and ushers them along.

They end up at a little place where their waitress turns out to be the owner. She’s an older woman who frowns at Zhenya’s shirt then talks to Syd, words too fast for Syd to follow. At the end, she pats Syd’s cheek and walks away.

“Um?” Syd asks.

Zhenya’s cheeks are pink. “She says you should find a new person to eat with. That I like the wrong team.”

That can’t be the whole story, but Zhenya looks uncomfortable enough that she doesn’t press.

When the woman returns with food, Syd’s eyes light up. It’s a struggle not to snatch the plates out of her hands. Zhenya smiles as he watches Syd track their lunch.

As soon as the woman is gone, Syd dives in, making herself a plate with a little of everything. She catches him staring when her cheeks are stuffed and she makes a face at him as she chews.

“I’m a hockey player,” she says once she can speak. She looks pointedly at his empty plate. “You too.”

“Ladies first,” Zhenya says.

Sydney laughs. “There won’t be any left for you.”

It isn’t an idle threat, and Zhenya quickly fills a plate of his own. Syd forces herself to slow down when she takes seconds, because she doesn’t want to make herself sick and because the food’s too good to not taste it.

Between bites, she makes Zhenya help her practice her Russian. He’s a bad teacher, because he doesn’t correct her as often as she knows she needs. She learns that he smiles, a fond half-smile that tugs at the corner of his lips when she doesn’t get the accent quite right. She shapes her mouth around words and sounds, repeating the phrase to herself over and over until the owner returns.

The woman looks surprised to see the empty plates now covering their table. 

“Thank you,” Sydney says, slowly so she gets this right. “The food was delicious. You have a very nice restaurant.”

She glances at Zhenya to make sure she said everything right then back at the woman. She’s smiling, obviously pleased. She cocks her head to the side, assessing Sydney. Her gaze dips down to Syd’s team shirt.

She speaks, too quickly for Syd to follow, and Sydney instinctively turns to Zhenya. The woman puts her hand on Sydney’s arm, reclaiming her attention. Slower, she repeats herself. “You are Sydney Crosby.”

It isn’t a question, but Sydney nods anyway.

“Welcome to Moscow.” The woman’s warm smile fades as she cuts a look at Zhenya. She speaks rapid Russian again, and leaves, taking some of their plates with her.

Syd kicks Zhenya under the table. “What’d she say?”

“I am welcome here only if you bring me.” He’s smiling which must mean he isn’t offended by it. “Nice lady, good food. You should come here often.”

“We have team cooks.”

“Team cooks won’t fuss.”

“I don’t need fuss.”

Zhenya doesn’t say anything, but she still feels as if she didn’t win that argument. On their way out, the woman draws Syd in for a hug. It startles her at first then she hugs back, probably for too long.

Zhenya looks at her, a thousand thoughts written all over his face. 

“Shut up,” Syd grumbles as they head out.

#

She drags Zhenya back to the dorm, because she told her team she was watching tape this afternoon and she doesn’t want to be caught lying.

Zhenya follows when she tugs on his hand and, by some miracle, they don’t run into any of her teammates on the way to her room. She takes her shoes off by the door and boots up her laptop. 

“Penguins?” she asks.

“Penguins!” Zhenya hastily shucks his shoes. He closes the door almost all the way then sprawls out on the bed next to her.

Some of his enthusiasm seems to fade when Syd delves into her hockey archives and pulls up a game.

“Penguins?” he asks. 

“Hockey,” she answers.

“After, we’re watching  _ real _ penguins.”

“Okay.”

She shuffles closer so they’re pressed up against each other. She pretends it’s because they’re lying on her blankets and she’s chilly, but really it’s because the hug earlier made her realize how much she misses casual touches.

Zhenya turns to look at her. They’re shoulder-to-shoulder which means his face is  _ right there _ and--

“Lemieux,” she says, turning to her computer. “Good example.”

Zhenya stares at her for a long moment before he gives the game most of his attention. The game isn’t the best quality, because it was recorded on VHS before it was put on her computer, but Lemieux’s still flying. And when he and Jagr are on the ice together… Syd sighs, happy as the two pass back and forth, beautiful hockey that their opponents can’t keep up with.

“He’s your favorite?” Zhenya asks. “You want to be a Penguin?”

“I’d play for any team,” she says. She’d play in Florida where the ice is mushy and fans don’t know hockey if it meant the NHL. She doesn’t add that, because it makes her sound desperate. The truth is, she  _ is  _ desperate. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

“We’ll be Penguins,” Zhenya decides.

“We?”

“I go first, because you’re a baby. Then next year we draft you too.”

“The Penguins aren’t  _ that _ bad. Back-to-back-to-back first picks?” 

“You think I’m the best?”

In this fantasy world where she’s drafted first overall? Yeah, he’s the best. She nudges his shoulder and in English says, “Don’t make me pump your tires.”

He tilts his head, curious, and it makes her want to lean in and kiss him. His lips are parted and look soft. Would they feel soft against hers? Would he kiss her back, gentle and careful?

A knock on her door then it swings open. “You’re back,” Sasha says. He pauses when he sees Zhenya. His eyes narrow and his tone is less friendly as he rattles off his next sentences. He’s talking too fast and doesn’t look at Syd.

Next to her, Zhenya stiffens and he snaps back, angry and harsh.

It pisses her off and makes her feel left out. She tugs on Zhenya’s sleeve. “Penguins?”

He pulls away and her heart sinks even before he says, “I should go back to the hotel. I need to nap before the game.”

“Okay.” Stung, even though she understands, she turns her full attention to her computer. It’s a commercial break.

Zhenya lingers for a moment before he slides off her bed. She stares at the stupid car commercial until it switches to something different. Zhenya’s still slipping his shoes on when she darts in for a hug. It catches him off guard, and she would have knocked them both over if Sasha wasn’t there to steady them. 

“Good luck,” Sydney says. Then, “I hope you lose.”

Zhenya laughs and tugs on her braid before he leaves. Without Zhenya there there’s a space between Syd and Sasha. She’s annoyed enough that she wants to ignore him, but she also wants another hug.

“Video?” Sasha asks. His expression, for once, is difficult to read.

“Lemieux and Jagr,” she answers. “Not watch  _ own _ tape. Secret.”

Sasha eyes the space between them then her bed, the comforter rumpled from earlier. “Do you want to finish your game?”

“We can watch us,” Syd offers.

“How do you already have tape?”

Syd grins. “Coach likes me best.”

“Maybe he knows how much work you need.”

“It’s my first year.” Syd flops back down on her bed. She pulls up the footage from their first preseason game.

Sasha joins her, lying half on top of her as she hits play. It’s nice, his weight on her, anchoring her when her thoughts want to wander. Sasha, not Zhenya, is her teammate. Sasha, if Syd plays well enough, will be her winger. 

_ Maybe Zhenya and I will be teammates in the NHL. Penguins even. _

She leans into Sasha and points at the screen as he takes off down the ice. “You cheat.”

“Cheat?”

She rewinds to show him halfway out of the zone before they have possession. “Cheat.”

“Maybe I knew you’d win the puck back.”

She pokes him in the stomach. “Defense.  _ Then _ you score.”

She skips ahead to a similar play. “Wait and I breakaway too. 2-on-1, yes? I still pass. Goal is yours.”

Some of Sasha’s smile disappears. “I’m not selfish,” he says, a word she knows well after only a few of Coach’s speeches.

“Not mean,” Syd groans as her Russian fails her. How does she explain without all the words she needs? “With two, is hard for other team. Have to choose.”

“They know me so they’ll defend my shot.  _ You  _ shoot.”

“Maybe.”

She brings up their next shift and points how he forced a turnover that led to extended time in the offensive zone. By the time they’re finished with the first period, Sasha’s drooping.

“Nap?” Syd asks.

He props himself up on his elbows. “Tape isn’t done.”

“You play tonight,” she says and hopes she doesn’t sound too bitter. 

“Without my Gretzka.” He wipes away fake tears. When she doesn’t laugh, he studies her before saying, “This is why you want to watch tape? You’re afraid I’ll forget my favorite center?”

“Nap,” she says, shoving his shoulder.

He flops firmly on top of her. “ _ You  _ nap.”

“I’m not playing,” she reminds him.

“Practice.”

“Practice sleeping?” she laughs but he doesn’t budge. “Fine. Need blankets.”

“Cold?” Sasha asks. “It isn’t even winter yet.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

Sasha goes completely still. “You want me to stay?”

She shrugs. “Don’t nap together in RSL?”

Sasha’s silence means that yes, they probably do, but they don’t talk about it.

Alekno pokes his head in her open door and frowns even though they’re both fully clothed and on top of the blankets.

“Tape,” Syd says. She turns her computer so her captain can see the footage.

He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Nap now. Come along, Sasha.”

Sasha rolls off Syd’s bed. She’s disappointed to see him leave even though she knows it’s for the best. She’s confused about her feelings and alone in a new country and it isn’t fair to pull Sasha or Zhenya into it. 

She knew coming to Russia would be hard and she chose to come anyway. She has to be stronger than the homesickness and loneliness and language barrier. And she will be.

#

Magnitogorsk shuts them out. Zhenya has a goal, an assist, and a scuffle on the night. It was with Sasha, some pushing and shoving which almost becomes something more. 

Sasha’s in a pissy mood after the game, because he hit two cross bars and was on the ice for the first goal. Syd’s privately pleased that Khtey didn’t play as well with Sasha as she did then immediately guilty.  _ Selfish _ , she hears in Coach’s voice.

She tugs on her suit jacket and pulls her elbows in to give Volkov more space to change. 

“Missed you on the ice tonight, Gretzka,” he tells her.

“Next game.”

He ruffles her hair then laughs as she tries to pat it back into place.

“There are cameras,” she says.

“You’re the prettiest girl on the team.”

She huffs and slides closer to Grankin.

#

The team descends on the mess hall for dinner, piling their plates high with food. With the exception of Sasha, no one seems to have taken the loss too hard.

When dinner’s over, though, Alekno pulls her aside. 

“Wow,” Volkov says. “You didn’t even play and you’re in trouble?”

Alekno shoos Volkov then three other players away.

“Translator?” Berezhko offers, the last one of their teammates to linger.

“We’ll be fine,” Alekno says.

If he wants to talk to her alone then maybe she is in trouble.

“Gretzka?” Berezhko asks as if he won’t leave until she gives the okay.

“It’s okay.” She glances at Alekno, half expecting him to contradict her.

Alekno waits until Berezhko leaves to give her his full attention. She almost wishes that someone had stayed. She hasn’t been on the receiving end of too many captain scoldings.

“Trouble?” she asks.

“Sasha,” he answers.

She eyes him, waiting for more. When it doesn’t come she offers a hesitant, “Sasha in trouble or Sasha  _ is _ trouble?”

“You and Sasha are trouble.”

This is about Sasha being in her room earlier? She rolls her eyes. “Game tape. Door was open.”

“The door stays open.”

It’s like she’s back at Shattuck. “We’re team.”

“The door stays open.”

She wants to stomp off which won’t do much to show that she’s an adult capable of making her own decisions. It would probably feel good, though.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Go now?”

He looks as happy for the conversation to be over as she is and lets her go.


	8. Chapter 8

Coach keeps her from the last preseason game which is probably strategy on his part, because she’s desperate to be on the ice and  _ play _ .

Their first game is at home against HC Lada Togliatti. She’s buzzing at morning skate. She’s still wired when she goes to her room for her nap. She starts on her side, flips to her stomach then turns to her other side. She piles her blankets on top of her to weigh her down but then she sweats.

_ Sleep _ , she tells herself, stern.

It seems impossible but eventually she drifts off. 

She wakes up with even more energy. Nerves and anticipation twist up her stomach, but she chokes down some food before she heads to the rink. She changes in an empty locker room and hits the bike. It’s easy to fall into her normal routine--bike, then stretching--with a familiar playlist on her MP3 player.

She could be on any team, preparing for any game.

Then Grankin and Berezhko wander in, rapid Russian flying between them and she knows she’s in Russia.

She’s in  _ Moscow _ , preparing for the first professional game of her career. 

Grankin waves to her. She takes one of her headphones off.

“Ready?” Berezhko asks.

“It’s hockey,” she answers. “I’m always ready.”

“Togliatti is good,” Grankin says.

“We’re better.” Syd smiles, sharp, and puts her headphone back on.

By the time a crowd gathers in the weight room, she’s ready for the next stage of her warm-up. She eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, expensive to get out here but worth it for how the familiar snack settles her.

She tapes her sticks next, sitting by herself as she methodically tapes the shafts. By the end, she’s ready but the game isn’t ready for her yet.

She tips her head back against her stall and closes her eyes.

She visualizes faceoff wins and goals and the swoop of elation that comes from winning. 

When she opens her eyes, the locker room is mostly full, and it’s time for her to change.

Sasha finds her as the team troops out to the ice. He’s grinning, eyes bright as he bumps her shoulder. “Hockey.”

She smiles back. “Hockey.”

#

There’s no Canadian or even American national anthem before the game, and Syd’s on the bench as the starting line-ups are announced. It’s weird. She doesn’t like it. 

The fans are loud, cheering for each name. They draw a new breath as Alekno takes his place at the faceoff dot. Then they’re deafening as Alekno springs forward and starts their season out right.

Syd sits at the edge of the bench watching, trying to absorb as much as she can before it’s time for her first shift. 17 is slow and 5 doesn’t keep his stick on the ice as much as he should and 24 has deceptively quick hands.

“Gretzka!” Coach barks and Syd leaps to her feet and slings a leg over the boards.

As soon as Alekno reaches the bench she takes off. If they’d high-fived on the exchange then it would’ve been like the relay races she did as a kid.

Grinning, she taps her stick on the ice and Berezhko passes to her before he goes for his change. She cradles the puck, protecting it from Togliatti as they send one player then another to try and take it from her. 

She skates around them then slings the puck cross-ice to Sokolov. He passes to Volkov as she drops down below the goal line. When Volkov rims the puck around the boards she’s there to stop it. Someone slams into her from behind.

“Here, here!” Sasha shouts.

She glances over her shoulder, works the puck free, and passes. 

Sasha shoots as soon as he has the puck, but the goalie makes the save. 

Coach calls their line to the bench and just like that her first shift as a professional hockey player is over.

_ I can do this _ , she realizes as she takes a seat on the bench. She grins around her mouthguard and nudges Sasha’s shoulder. Next shift, they score.

#

Syd battles in the offensive zone this time against a man with both a height and weight advantage. He shoves her against the boards and she shoves back, claiming her space. The puck stays trapped against the boards.

Sokolov drops down to help. He knocks the defender off Syd’s back and she escapes with the puck. Sasha’s already out of the zone, and she lifts a pass out to him before chasing him and the puck.

There’s a defender back, and Syd reaches them in time for Sasha to slide the puck to her. The defender and goalie both committed to Sasha. She shoots high corner and the goalie’s last minute flail isn’t enough.

The goal light flashes on her first ever RSL goal. She throws her arms up then throws herself at Sasha as the crowd roars. 

He laughs and spins her around, setting her down only as the rest of their line crashes into her.

#

It’s 1-1 at first intermission and Syd sits in her stall, tired from good hockey but ready for more. She’s surprised when Berezhko takes Volkov’s usual spot next to her. 

“What did you see?” he asks her in English.

It takes her a moment to process the question then her face lights up. “They shoot from the perimeter because we out-muscle them down low. They like the stretch pass for breakouts which means we can intercept if we keep our heads up and our sticks on the ice on our side--”

“Wait, wait,” he says, holding a hand up. He says something to Mikhailov who nods then asks a question.

“Okay, us,” Berezhko says.

Syd eyes the small crowd gathering then shrugs and launches into the opportunities there are for their team.

By the time Coach comes into the room, most of the team is gathered around Syd’s locker, listening to Berezhko translate her observations from the first period.

Coach eyes them, curious, before he calls the team to order. He breaks down the period much like Syd just did. He harps on their defensive play and offers a few suggestions to open up the ice on offense. Syd follows most of it. Coaches tend to give the same speeches no matter what level they coach at.

As they head back up to the ice, Mikhailov falls into step with her. “You have a lot going on.” He taps her helmet.

“I’m not  _ stupid _ ,” she says. “Russian is small.” Her mouth twists because that’s not right and maybe she  _ is _ stupid. 

“Russian is hard,” Mikhailov agrees. “Talk with hockey. We’ll listen.”

“Okay,” she says. “Your backcheck save a goal.”

He shoves her shoulder and rolls his eyes. 

“Truth,” she says.

“All those drills.”

She laughs and they take the ice together for a brief warm-up.

#

It’s Syd’s turn to backcheck. 15 streaks down the ice and she chases him down. He must hear her coming because he glances over his shoulder to see where she is. It slows him just enough for her to catch up and poke the puck safely to the corner.

They both go after it and battle there along the boards. She tries to flatten him against the glass but he laughs and doesn’t budge. He elbows her. She slashes his ankles. He growls at her in Russian.

She jabs at the puck and it pops free only for his teammate to trap it. 15 throws his shoulder into her chest and she wobbles but doesn’t fall. It puts her off balance enough for 15 to take the puck and skate around the back of the net with it.

Syd goes back to work.

#

Sasha scores on the power play to put them ahead 2-1.

It’s a goal Syd’s seen dozens of times before, because he takes the puck at his spot and rockets it past the goalie. Watching it on her computer screen in Minnesota had left her impressed. Watching it in person leaves her breathless.

Volkov laughs at her and shuts her mouth. “His ego is big enough.”

On the ice, Sasha celebrates, slamming his fists against the glass to rile up the crowd. They pound back, screaming for him.

#

Their next power play comes in the third period. It’s 2-2 now and Coach puts the second unit on the ice first. 

Syd wins the faceoff then drops below the goal line. Berezhko shuffles the puck to her. When 4 collapses on her, she reverses direction. He stays with her until the third turn when he loses an edge. She comes around the corner of the goal and the other defenseman drops to cover her. It opens the rest of the ice and she passes up to the point.

Sokolov settles her pass then shoots, a bomb that deflects off a body. She watches the puck fly up in the air. It comes down in an arc, near her. She raises her stick, waits for it to drop enough, then swings.

The puck bounces off the goalie’s nameplate and into the goal.

“What the fuck?” Berezhko shouts as he slams into her. 

“Gretzka!” Sokolov exclaims.

She grins as her teammates pile on her, slapping her helmet or her ass. They usher her to the bench for more congratulations. Alekno gives her a friendly facewash and Sasha drags her down on the bench next to him.

“I thought baseball was for Americans,” he says.

“I played.” She laughs and doesn’t tell him that her baseball career was cut short by a brawl. She’ll have to call Jack and tell him about the goal.

Sasha laughs and jostles her. “One more? Opening night hat trick?”

“I just want to win.”

#

The game ends 3-2, her goal standing as the game-winner. They salute the fans before heading down to the locker room. She strips out of her gear and grabs her towel, ready to shower when Alekno taps her shoulder.

“Media,” he says.

“Sasha,” she counters.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Two goals, rookie. They all want you.”

“My Russian not good.”

His expression gentles, less teasing now. “We won’t leave you on your own.”

She looks at the showers longingly then sighs and grabs a Dynamo shirt. She takes her baseball cap and plops it on her head. She tips the brim down and Alekno tips it back up.

“You can’t hide anymore.”

“No more goals.”

He laughs before moving on to Sokolov.

She sits down in her stall and takes a deep breath.  _ Press _ . She knew it was too much to hope that she could play hockey and do nothing else but she had hoped. She’ll just stick to her lines, and maybe the coverage will make it back to the NHL. 

She did have two goals in her professional debut. That should show that she’s serious, right?

Berezhko takes a seat next to her. “I’m your translator for the night.”

“I won’t keep you long.”

“We have a win to celebrate.”

When the reporters come in, she’s surprised by how many come straight for her. She resists the urge to slouch her shoulders or hide behind her hat. 

“You had two goals in your first game,” one of them says.

“My teammates played hard,” Syd answers carefully. She knows Berezhko is here but the less she has to burden him the better. “Hockey is team sport. We work together and good things happen.”

“Your first was on the breakaway. You didn’t pass to Ovechkin.”

Now, Syd turns to Berezhko, because she doesn’t want any translation issues here. “We talked about plays like this. He’s established in this league and teams see him as a threat. Their coverage opened space up for me. There will be other breakaways where it makes sense to pass.”

She waits for the reporters to jot down their notes before she adds, “That was a joint effort. I freed the puck, and he started the breakaway. He drew the coverage so I could score. The goal doesn’t happen without him.”

She’s not sure if she’s imagining it or not, but the reporters seem to eye her with a little more respect after they hear her answer.

“And your second?”

“Right place, right time,” she answers in Russian. Then with a little smile, “It’s never a bad idea to put the puck on net.”

One of them mimes swinging a baseball bat.

“I play at Shattuck.”

“Briefly,” a reporter says. He checks something on his notepad. “You were tossed out for fighting.”

She can feel Berezhko’s surprise but she doesn’t acknowledge it. “I defend my teammate. Many important lessons learned there.”

A couple of the reporters chuckle. A few of them eye her as if she’s more interesting than they originally anticipated. But she’s exhausted from even her brief questions so she says, “Teammates share, yes?” She waits until they nod. “Sasha’s turn.”

They laugh again and Syd smiles, pleased with herself. It’s even better when it  _ works _ and they leave her be.

“Nice,” Berezhko says, impressed.

Syd flashes him a double thumbs-up and retreats for her shower.

#

The whole team goes out after the win. They stop by the dorms long enough to change then Alekno takes them to a club with loud music and flashing lights.

They’re given a table in the back and up three stairs so it’s separate from the dance floor while still having a clear view of it. A woman in a black mini dress comes over with a tray of shots. Syd wonders if this is what it’s like to be famous.

Volkov hands her a shot. “First goal,” he says.

Sokolov gives her another. “Second goal.”

She has a shot glass in each hand and her whole team is staring at her. She knocks the first back and, when she doesn’t cough or choke, knocks back the other. Her team whoops and cheers as if she’s scored again. She plucks a shot off the tray and holds it out to Sasha, because she thinks she understands how this works.

He grins as he accepts it.

After that it’s a free-for-all, and Syd’s happy to sit back as they bicker over who gets to drink first. Her teammates stay at the table, talking about the game until they’ve cleared three trays. Then a few trickle down to the dance floor where they’re heckled by the others.

Syd looks out at the dance floor, all the people crammed into the small space. They move against each other, some with distance between them and others… well, some of them are very close. Her cheeks heat up even though she’s seen people kiss before.

What would kissing feel like after a win with adrenaline from the game still pumping through her system? Maybe she’ll find out tonight. There are a ton of people in here. She can probably find one who wants to kiss her.

She doesn’t realize she’s been staring at Sasha until Volkov nudges her. “Too much to drink?”

“No such thing,” Sokolov says. He hands Syd another shot.

She drinks it before Volkov can stop her. “Dance,” she decides.

“Woah,” Sokolov says. He eyes the empty shot glass in her hand.

Volkov sighs. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she says. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Now she’s speaking English,” Volkov mutters. He glares at Sokolov as if it’s his fault.

Syd, to prove how okay she is, stands up. She sways a little as if the vodka didn’t affect her while she was sitting but is hitting her now.

Volkov steadies her with a hand on her hip. He looks ready to pull her back into the booth which she doesn’t want. She wants to  _ dance _ .

“I’m fine,” she promises. “Maybe a little unsteady but that’s why I have a partner, right? He can hold me up and everything will be fine.”

“Where the fuck is Berezhko?” Volkov grumbles.

When Syd tries to slip away, he grabs her wrist.

“Bathroom,” she says in Russian.

As soon as Volkov lets her go, she slips away. She does go to the bathroom, both because she said she would and because they can’t follow her. But then she hits the dance floor, just drunk enough that she isn’t self-conscious. She finds a small pocket of space and moves to the music. It’s nothing she’s heard before and she can’t make out any of the words but she doesn’t need to.

A hand curls around her hip then she’s pulled back against a solid body. She grinds back against him and he holds her with two hands, encouraging her to move against him.

A few songs later, when his hands wander too much, she breaks away from him and finds a new partner.

Countless songs later, her newest partner turns her so they’re facing each other. He looks young-ish, his features dark as he stares at her. She smiles and he touches his thumb to her bottom lip. He says something in Russian but she doesn’t understand.

His leg slots between hers and…  _ oh. _ That feels really good. She rolls her hips down and he groans. One hand drops to her hip to pull her closer. The other wraps around her ponytail and tips her head back. He leans in and her lips tingle with the anticipation of a kiss. Should she close her eyes? Keep them open? Should she touch him back?

“Gretzka!” Someone exclaims, breaking the moment.

Suddenly, Grankin boxes her dance partner out like he’s a forward crashing the net and Volkov ushers Syd away.

“Really?” she asks, unimpressed as she’s herded back to the booth. Volkov sits her next to Alekno then sits down too, trapping her.

“Only team,” Alekno says which is bullshit but she’ll call his bluff.

“Okay,” she says.

Half the team looks alarmed at her easy acquiescence. She lets her gaze drag over her teammates, smiling as they squirm or slouch in the booth. Sasha staggers over to the table, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed. He knocks back a shot and she climbs over Volkov to grab his arm.

“Dance,” she says. She looks back at Alekno, challenging.

“Dance?” Sasha asks. He offers her a shot.

She drinks it then leads him back to the dance floor. 

“We won,” she says, crowding close so he’ll hear her. Then, in English, “We’re the Dynamo Duo.”

“Dynamo Duo?” he repeats.

She nods. “You and me.”

Their faces are right next to each other. There’s a shine of sweat on his face, and his hair is a wreck. It reminds her of her last partner and she looks at his mouth before she turns around. She wraps his arms around her and leans back against him. 

He holds her, strong and careful against his chest. They dance for song after song until her shirt is soaked through with sweat and her throat is dry. 

“Water?” she asks, tugging on his hand. She brings him to the bar and leans into him as they wait to be noticed.

Sasha orders a water for each of them, and they drink them right there at the bar.

“More?” she asks. She points to a group of girls further down the bar. “You want?”

He shakes his head. “Tonight is for team.”

She grins and they rejoin their teammates. 

“Have fun?” Volkov asks.

Syd nods and wipes sweaty strands of hair out of her face. She sticks to the booth for the rest of the night, floating from the mix of the alcohol and the win. She leans against Volkov more and more as the night drags on.

Eventually, he laughs and shakes her shoulder. “Bedtime for little Gretzka.”

“Fuck you,” she slurs.

He just laughs again and pushes her out of the booth. It sparks a mass exodus, most of the team heading out. She bounces between Volkov and Sokolov. The night breeze leaves her chilled. She should shower before bed but she’s not sure she has the energy.

Volkov drops her off at her door with a bottle of water he grabbed from the kitchen. “Practice tomorrow,” he warns.

She drinks half the water in one go. “I’m not drunk,” she says. “Just tired.”

“Past your bedtime?” he teases.

She finishes the water and throws the empty bottle at his head. He laughs as throws it back.

“Good game tonight,” he tells her.

“You too. Again on Thursday. Maybe you score this time.”

He leaves and she musters up the energy for a quick shower, rinsing away the sweat and cologne from the club. She feels ten times better once she’s clean and she slips into her bed with a happy sigh.

#

She wakes up with some lingering soreness, her quads tight from a full 60 minutes of hockey and a night of dancing. She makes a note to roll out after her warm-up bike.

She grins at her teammates as they join her for breakfast, some of them bleary-eyed. Others squinting against the light.

Sasha drops down next to her with a plate of eggs. “Hockey today.”

She’s not sure she’ll ever grow tired of hearing that.

#

Not that Syd would ever tell anyone, but she’s disappointed after her first game passes without comment from the NHL. Maybe it had been naive to think that they’d see her play and realize they wanted her playing for  _ them _ once she was old enough.

Once her second then third games pass without so much as a murmur from the NHL, she realizes there was a flaw in her plan. Maybe the NHL doesn’t want her no matter how good she is.

The realization comes after a phone call to Brisson, who did his best to gently break the lack of news. Then he tried to distract her by talking about Moscow which mostly worked. But once he was off the line and she was by herself with her thoughts, she’s forced to confront the fact that that the RSL might not be the back-up plan, it might be  _ the _ plan.

She’s approached the season like a tryout for the NHL, but now it’s time for a shift. This season is her tryout for the  _ RSL _ . If this is her future, and it looks like it will be then she needs to play the best Russian-style hockey she can.

She needs to start making Moscow her  _ home _ .

#

She drags Sasha to the store with her to buy paintings and a little bamboo sprout for her room. The saleswoman tells her the bamboo is hardy and can handle being left alone while she’s on the road. 

She hangs Russian art on her walls, awe-inspiring views of snow-capped mountains and frozen lakes and cities bustling with life. She buys herself a second blanket and a couch that she’ll never be able to bring to Canada.

She draws the line at clothes shopping, but she fills her room with things that make her want to come back to it. It’s unmistakably lived in now.

Volkov, who helped them bring the couch up, flops down on it as soon as it’s where she wants it. “You’re strange,” he tells her. 

She tosses the new blanket on his head. “I’m home.”

Sasha looks at her, curious.

“I sign for two years,” she reminds him.

“Because your draft is in two years.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Volkov sits up, the blanket slipping off his head. “Gretzka?”

“I’m hungry,” she says.

“You’re always hungry,” Sasha tells her but he allows her to change the subject.


	9. Chapter 9

They leave on their first road trip, and it’s a little like Shattuck, loud and belligerent. There’s a big to-do over who sits where. Syd claims a row for herself and puts her headphones in.

She closes her eyes as a soothing woman’s voice reads a children’s book to her. Her vocabulary is coming along nicely, not just hockey, but she still struggles with forming sentences.

She’s listening to an adventure involving knights and dragons. One of the knights is grumpy and keeps complaining about the mud on his boots.

The hotel in Yaroslavl is like every hotel she’s ever been in. And, like her other teams, Alekno hands her a key card for a single. No roommate for her. At least there’s a connecting door. When she opens it, Sokolov and Grankin wave at her.

She waves back then leaves the door open.

#

They lose to Yaroslavl which she’s pissed about then they cream Novosibirsk. They have another two games on their road trip when they check into a hotel in Kazan. 

Everything’s fine, team dinner then cards in Alekno’s room. Syd’s tired but it’s her first road trip so she expects it. It isn’t anything she can’t play through.

She leaves the card game early, laughing off her teammates’ chirps. Yes, she has an early bedtime but it’s self-imposed because it’s what she needs to play well. A good night’s rest and they’ll crush the Ak Bars tomorrow.

She wakes up at half-past eleven and for once it isn’t because she’s hungry.

She knows what it is and tips her head up to the ceiling and says, “Fuck.”

She turns the light on next to her bed and hauls her bag onto the bed. She checks the side pocket.

Nothing.

She checks the front pocket.

“Fuck,” she says again.

She got all new bags and gear when she came to Russia and somehow forgot the most important thing she packs in her bags.

She takes a deep breath as tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. She won’t fall into hysterics. She’s not a  _ stereotype _ . This is a problem but one she can easily solve. The hotel has a concierge. She has money and there are stores nearby.

Yes, it’s past curfew, but Syd’ll only be out of the room for five minutes.

She uses the bathroom, stuffs her underwear full of toilet paper as a temporary fix, and changes into sweats. She shoves her wallet in one pocket and her key card in the other and heads downstairs.

She realizes as she sees the lone man behind the welcome desk that she doesn’t have the Russian for what she needs. And while she’d fumble through it if it had been a woman, she’s not doing it now. She’d rather risk Coach’s wrath by venturing outside. 

She keeps her head down in hopes that no one will notice or remember her.

She’s almost reached the doors when Sasha pops up next to her. 

She groans. “Go away.”

“You’re sneaking out. And you didn’t invite me? We’re supposed to get in trouble together.”

She doesn’t want to make a scene because that will definitely be memorable. She walks out and Sasha follows. Once they’re on the curb she turns to him.

“Go sleep.”

He shakes his head, infuriatingly stubborn. “What do you need?”

She scowls and heads for the corner pharmacy. He follows because of course he does. He continues to follow when they reach the store and she heads to the feminine hygiene aisle.

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” she repeats, a touch mockingly. “Go now?”

He leaves her alone with the rows of pads and tampons. She takes a deep breath before trying to figure out which Cyrillic labels house what she’s looking for.

Sasha’s waiting at the store exit for her, a box of chocolate in his hand. She stares at it, tears prickling the corners of her eyes again.

“Sasha?” she asks because they might be for him but she did tell him she’s on her period and--

He opens the box and pulls out a chocolate. He bites it in half to show her the hard outer shell and softer chocolate inside.

“Do you want?” he asks, uncharacteristically shy.

She takes the offered half and pops it in her mouth. It’s good, the chocolate richer than she’s used to, and she moans as the inside melts against her tongue.

“Another?” Sasha asks.

She eyes the box,  _ wanting _ , but there’s no way this is on her nutrition plan. She hesitantly shakes her head.

Like he knows the reason, Sasha bites another in half. “We’ll share,” he says.

And maybe she is a stereotype after all because she can’t say no a second time. They make quick work of the chocolate before they head back to the hotel. 

“Thank you,” Syd says. She was grumpy earlier and he stuck with her when he didn’t need to. And he bought her chocolate. She leans into him and he smiles at her as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. He tugs her close as they take the elevator up to their floor.

She thinks they’re in the clear until they turn the corner and half the team  _ and _ Coach are standing outside her room.

“Aw fuck,” Sasha mutters.

Alekno looks furious, arms crossed over his chest. Coach looks ready to strangle one or both of them. Volkov looks worried and Berezhko looks guilty which means he must be Sasha’s roommate.

“I’ve got this,” she tells Sasha then strides forward. She walks right up to Coach and Alekno and opens her bag for them to look in. She arches her eyebrows at Alekno. “Questions?”

Alekno takes a big step back. Coach rolls his eyes.

Because she doesn’t want to come across as a moody bitch she tells Berezhko in English. “I needed help and Sasha helped me. He’s a good teammate and he kept me from wandering on my own in the dark.”

Berezhko lifts his eyebrows, clearly disbelieving.

She huffs and turns to Coach, sifting through her hockey words until she can cobble together enough Russian to say, “It’s my fault. Sasha is good teammate.”

Coach sighs. “Bed. All of you.”

Syd lingers, wanting to make sure Sasha won’t get in trouble for helping her out. When Berezhko ushers Sasha to their room, she turns away for her own.

#

At breakfast, her teammates give her a wide berth.

She rolls her eyes as Grankin glances at her then quickly looks away. 

“I’m not  _ contagious _ ,” Syd says. “Boys are stupid.”

“Hey,” Berezhko protests without much heat. “They’ll calm down. I think Alekno’s just happy you aren’t pregnant.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

Sasha looks up from his breakfast. “Fuck?” he repeats.

Of course  _ that’s _ the word he understands. She supposes she’s lucky he didn’t understand the rest of it.

“No,” Berezhko says. “No fucking. I’m too young to be a grandfather.”

Syd stares, mouth hanging open before she socks him in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

“You have a small vocabulary.”

She flips him off, and he laughs, clearly proud of himself.

#

Someone puts a bottle of Tylenol in her stall. She’s not sure if it’s a chirp or someone trying to be nice. She stares at the bottle, checks to see if the seal’s been broken then tucks it into her bag.

Her teammates watch her during practice as if they expect her to lose her temper or burst into tears. It leaves her on edge.

“Have they never spent time around girls before?” Syd demands during a drink break. “Aren’t half the guys married?”

“Do you actually want me to answer?” Berezhko asks.

“It’s normal,” Syd says. “And if everyone had minded their own fucking business last night then they wouldn’t know things they wish they didn’t.”

“Sasha broke curfew. I had to tell Alekno.”

Syd sighs. “I just need to have a good game and everyone will stop being weird.”

“Sure,” Berezhko says.

She sprays him with her water bottle.

#

Coach finds her after practice. He manages to corner her and Berezhko which isn’t actually that difficult because she’s stuck close to the winger all practice. She knows she shouldn’t speak English with him, it’s a crutch, but today she needs the comfort.

“How are you feeling?” Coach asks.

“Oh no,” Berezhko says and flees like the giant coward he is.

“Good,” Syd answers because she has to be polite to Coach. “Ready.”

“Tired?” he asks. “Sore?”

“Ready,” she repeats, firmer this time.

Coach cracks a rare smile. “Good. Big game tonight.”

“Defense,” she says. “Backcheck.”

“Yes.”

#

She plays a season low number of minutes which doesn’t bother her all that much until Khtey makes a snide comment in his post-game interview. She doesn’t hear what he says, just the tone then he glances her way. The cameras turn too as Volkov sucks a breath in through his teeth.

“What?” Syd asks.

Volkov shakes his head. “Go shower.”

“I’m not your kid,” she mutters but she goes.

She takes her time showering, because the media like to hound them after a loss. She feels ten times better once she’s clean, ready for food then a long sleep.

Berezhko’s waiting by her stall when she returns.

“That bad?” Syd asks.

In English he says, “Things I’m sure you’ve heard before. Maybe girls don’t have the stamina for the game.”

She  _ has _ heard that one before. She rolls her eyes.

Berezhko hesitates before adding, “Maybe Coach should be proactive and scratch you once a month.”

Syd goes perfectly still, all her rage coiling tight inside her. She doesn’t know what shows on her face but Berezhko takes a step back. She forces herself to take a deep breath. She shoves her feelings down until she looks less homicidal.

“That’s his opinion,” she says evenly. “I’ll play hard and show Coach that that isn’t necessary. You can tell the reporters that if you want.”

“Syd,” Berezhko says but she slings her bag over her shoulder and heads out to the bus.

#

They win to close out the road trip, but Syd’s teammates tiptoe around her. It makes her feel even more alone than usual. After their first practice back in Moscow, she heads to the little restaurant she and Zhenya went to then he was here.

The woman, clearly remembering her, smiles and pulls her in for a hug. Then she looks around--for Zhenya, Syd realizes. 

“Only me today,” Syd says.

The woman nods and herds her towards a table in the back. She brings Syd tea then vanishes again before Syd can ask for water.

She drinks the tea. It’s hot, warming her from the inside out. It tastes different from what she’s used to but since everything’s different it’s almost comforting.

Maybe she’ll call Elizabeth today and tell her about sneaking out of the hotel for tampons. Or maybe she’ll tell her about Zhenya and Sasha and how, now that she wants to kiss a boy, everyone is conspiring against her. 

The RSL season ends early. Maybe she can visit Elizabeth at Shattuck and Syd can go to a party with her. Well, maybe not at Shattuck. She’d be too recognizable there. But Elizabeth probably knows places they could go.

Syd’s pulled out of her thoughts by a guy balancing plates of food. She shakes her head as he sets them down.

“I’m not order,” she says.

He laughs, not unkind. “From Basha,” he says.

Syd shakes her head again. She doesn’t know any Basha. And she doesn’t know if this is trainer approved.

“I’m not order,” she repeats again. Her face flushes red, frustrated. All she wanted was a quiet little lunch.

The guy disappears then returns with the woman who greeted her when she came in.

_ Oh. _

“Stubborn,” Basha says. She sounds approving.

Syd, sounding like a broken record, says, “I’m not order,” and wonders if maybe she’s not saying what she thinks she’s saying.

“I ordered,” Basha says. “You eat.”

“Thank you,” Syd says and Basha nods, pleased, until Syd pulls a won piece of paper from her pocket. “Can only eat this. Help?”

Basha frowns and pinches Syd’s side before snatching up the paper. She looks like she’s about to rip it when the guy eases it from her grip. 

“I’ll help you,” he says.

Basha nods as if this is an acceptable compromise. She pushes him down into the chair across from Syd then returns to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Syd says.

The guy smiles, unbothered. “Basha is Basha. You’re not from around here.”

Syd shakes her head.

“I’m Dmitry,” he tells her.

“Sydney.”

He consults her list. “This is very specific.”

She nods.

“Ah, so you’re mysterious,” he says. “Sydney from somewhere else with her list of foods.”

If he hasn’t pieced it together then she won’t tell him. She doesn’t need headlines about how she can’t manage to feed herself. Maybe coming here on her own had been stupid.

Dmitry distracts her from her thoughts of fleeing by moving plates and bowls around. He points to each dish on her paper before pointing to it on the table. Once he’s separated all the food, she still has too much for one person to eat.

“Help eat?” she asks.

He grins and shakes a napkin over his lap.

She eyes him then the door to the kitchen. “Son?”

“Nephew.”

“Trouble?”

“Am I trouble?” he laughs before waving off her answer. “Will I get in trouble? No. You shouldn’t have to eat alone.”

“I have friends,” she says.

“And today you have me. Eat. It’s best when it’s hot.”

She scowls at him but eats. He tells her about moving to the city to work at his aunt’s shop. He comes from a small town and it’s different. They talk until the food is nearly gone. Basha comes by with a slice of cake which Syd stares at before she pats her list of trainer-approved foods.

“Next time,” Basha says.

Syd makes a note to only come on cheat days from now on.

Basha hugs Syd before she goes. Then she pinches Syd’s cheeks and ushers her out the door. Syd stumbles outside, off-balance yet settled.

Time for a nap.


	10. Chapter 10

They go to Magnitogorsk, and Zhenya’s waiting for her outside the locker room after morning skate.

“Go away, Zhenya,” Sasha says.

Zhenya ignores him which seems to be the best defense against Sasha. “Lunch?” he asks Syd. “My mama invited you to our house.”

“You’re stealing Gretzka?” Volkov demands.

Grankin and Sokolov loom, and they make Zhenya look small.

“Mama?” Syd asks.

“Yes. Good food, lots of hugs.”

And, well, she won’t turn that down. “I’m go.”

“Why don’t you invite me?” Sasha asks. “I thought we were best friends!”

Zhenya rolls his eyes but lets Sasha pull him into a conversation. Syd showers, lightning fast. Her braid is still dripping when she joins Zhenya outside the locker room. A couple of her teammates are still there, Sasha included.

It’s Volkov, though, who says, “Only hugs from Mama Malkina.”

“Asshole,” Syd says. She loops her arm through Zhenya’s. “Go now?”

Volkov opens his mouth, no doubt to say something embarrassing.

“Go now,” she says and it isn’t a question this time.

#

He lives in a medium-sized house on a quiet road. It’s bigger than some of the houses they passed on their way in. There’s a two-car garage and a main house then a smaller attached building. A workshop? An office?

“Apartment,” Zhenya says when he sees her staring. “So I have my own space. I bought this with my first contract.” He stands a little taller, proud. 

He bought his parents a house with his first contract. It doesn’t surprise her, everything she knows of him so far points to him being kind and more thoughtful than people might think hockey players are. But still. First professional contract and he didn’t buy a sports car or a new gaming system like the kids back home would’ve. He bought a house.

She smiles and bumps his shoulder. “It’s nice.”

“Yes.” He frowns a little as they approach the front door. “The yard is too small, though. Next house will have a big yard for all the dogs.”

“Dogs?” Syd looks around, hopeful.

Zhenya grins, and opens the front door. A giant dog leaps on her, taking her down as soon as she’s through the door. She laughs as it licks at her face. 

“Jeffrey!” Zhenya scolds.

“Jeffrey?” Syd repeats. She giggles as he noses at her neck.

“It’s a good name,” Zhenya says.

She giggles again as she wrestles the dog off of her.

“Zhenya,” his mom scolds.She pulls the dog off Sydney and helps her to her feet.

“Uh, hi,” Syd says. “Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

“So formal,” Natalia says before she pulls Sydney into a hug.

Syd hugs back, clinging to the warmth Natalia offers for as long as she thinks she’s allowed.

“How do you like Russia?” Natalia asks as she herds Syd into the kitchen.

“It’s nice,” Syd answers. “Pretty. The hockey is good.”

“And your team? Do they treat you well?”

Syd’s not sure whether to be glad she’s getting a Mom Talk or to groan and pretend she doesn’t understand. “They’re good. Like older brother.”

Natalia nods, clearly approving. She also pulls container after container out of the fridge. Syd can’t help but stare at the impressive stack of leftovers. Natalia eyes Syd then her son and dives back into the fridge.

“I’m sorry,” Natalia says, gesturing to the spread. “Your visit was a surprise.”

Syd whirls on Zhenya. “I wasn’t actually invited?” she demands in English, too horrified to sift through her Russian. “Zhenya, that’s  _ rude _ . I should go.”

She slides off her stool and mother and son both protest. 

“You can’t just bring people to your house without telling anyone. Tell your mom she doesn’t have to feed me.”

“He doesn’t understand you,” says a guy leaning against the doorway. He looks older than Zhenya.

Syd looks at Zhenya, his shoulders hunched and expression hunted. “He understands.”

The guy laughs. “I’m Denis, this idiot’s older brother.”

“Sydney,” she says and he glances at Zhenya and smirks. “Tell your mother that I’m very sorry and that I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Denis says something that makes Natalia plant herself in front of Sydney and scold  _ her _ .

“What did you say?” Syd demands.

Denis grins. “That you were trying to leave.” He waves then disappears to wherever he came from.

Syd turns to Zhenya looking for a rescue. 

“Mama’s going to make lunch. Do you want a snack first?”

“Zhenya,” she whines.

“Penguins?” he offers.

“Cheater,” she says.

Sensing he’s won, Zhenya grins and ushers her down the hall.

“Door stays open!” Natalia calls.

Syd flushes and stumbles on her next step.

“You understood that?” Zhenya asks. His cheeks are pink too.

“Team says.”

Zhenya’s curious as he ushers her through an even narrower hallway that must lead into the apartment. His room is the first on the right. “You bring a lot of people home?”

She shakes her head. “Alekno is bossy.”

Zhenya laughs. “All captains are. Do you want to watch the Penguins? Or I have a present for you.”

“Present?” She shakes her head. “You didn’t need to.”

“I wanted to. Sit.”

She sits on the edge of his bed as he rummages through his closet. She fidgets and hopes it isn’t anything extravagant. She wishes he’d told her so she could’ve gotten him a present in return.

He hands her a familiar orange bag of chocolate.

“Reese’s?” she asks.

“They’re your favorite.”

She nods as her eyes fill with tears. “I’m--” her voice wobbles. He found her her favorite chocolate and invited her to his house so his mom could hug her. It’s  _ nice _ and-- “I’m going to kick your ass tonight.”

Zhenya laughs and she pulls him in for a hug. She tucks her face against his neck. “Thank you.”

He hugs her back and they stay like that until Denis knocks on the open door. He smirks until he sees Syd wipe her eyes.

“Lunch?” Zhenya asks. He pushes his brother down the hall.

“Wash hands,” Syd says before stepping into the bathroom. She washes her hands then her face. She’s not sure it does any good.

She changes her assessment from ‘not sure’ to ‘definitely sure’ when she steps into the kitchen and Mrs. Malkina draws her in for another hug. Well, that or Denis tattled on her. She glares at Denis to make sure she covers her bases and he looks surprised before he bursts into laughter. 

Syd sits next to Zhenya and carefully, politely, thanks his mother for cooking before she dives in. She tries to take her time so she can taste everything and do it justice, but she’s so hungry. She’s  _ always _ hungry. Will that change the more seasons she has under her belt?

Her plate is halfway cleared when she pauses long enough to look up. Zhenya’s plate is equally demolished so she relaxes a little. And then her eyebrows shoot up and she digs into her pocket to produce her battered list of trainer approved foods.

“Zhenya,” she says but he’s too busy eating to notice her. “ _ Zhenya _ .”

When a second poke doesn’t get her anywhere she lifts a battered patty of deliciousness off his plate.  _ That _ gets his attention. She pops it in her mouth, triumphant, then holds her list out.

“What I eat?” she asks.

He points to each food on her plate then on the list. He says it once carefully for her and doesn’t move on until she says it too. The thing she stole from him is a kotlety. 

There’s a whole section of the plate he ignores. “Zhenya,” she says.

He takes a pen off the table and writes something at the bottom of the list.

“Mama’s food,” Syd reads then scowls.

“Cheat day?” Zhenya offers sweetly as if his face is enough to keep her from snapping at him.

“All food is good food when you’re growing,” Mrs. Malkina says. “Now, clear your plate and you can have seconds.

Syd looks between mother and son and, knowing when she’s outnumbered, she eats.

“I’m going to kick your ass  _ so hard _ ,” Syd mutters. 

Zhenya just laughs and elbows her good-naturedly.

#

When she returns from the Malkins’, Syd stashes her candy, shoves down her feelings, then goes to find Sasha.

It’s Berezhko who opens the door but that’s fine. Syd just needed a teammate to see her back at the hotel.

“Hi,” Syd says. “Nap now.”

“Syd?” Sasha calls before bounding over. He’s shirtless and pantless, just in a pair of dark blue boxers. 

A blush creeps up her cheeks. Mostly naked in the locker room is very different from mostly naked in a hotel room. She’s afraid to see what Berezhko’s face is doing so she stares at the floor.

“Nap now,” she says.

“Yes, you said that already.” Berezhko sounds amused.

Syd flees to her room and dives under all her blankets so she can pretend her face is flushed from the heat.

#

Sasha scores on the opening shift of the game. Syd battles down low, pulling players to her then slides the puck up to Sasha. He fires the puck in, unchallenged, and the goalie snaps his glove up after the puck’s already in the back of the net.

Syd whoops and skates straight for Sasha. She wraps her arms around his waist.

“Knew you’d be there,” she says.

It had been a blind pass, made on instinct and hope. And Sasha was  _ there _ and he scored.

Volkov scoffs. “He’s always there.”

“Shut up, we’re magic,” Sasha says.

“You’re  _ something _ .”

They’re all smiles as they skate to the bench.

Khtey’s line is sent out and Magnitogorsk matches it with Zhenya’s. Khtey wins the faceoff but Magnitogorsk gains possession soon after. It’s a 2-on-1, Zhenya and his linemate against Grankin.

Zhenya skates in close, goes forehand-backhand until Grankin’s turned inside-out.

“He’s going to run out of space,” Syd says because he’s right on Vasilev’s doorstep, and few people have the skill to elevate the puck that close. Then Zhenya roofs the puck with a flick of his wrists and Syd’s mouth goes dry. 

“His  _ hands _ ,” she says.

“Keep it in your pants, Gretzka,” Volkov tells her.

She elbows him but he has a point. She can gawk later. There’s a lead to take back. “Time for more magic.”

“Yes,” Sasha says.

#

The score is still 1-1 headed into first intermission, but Syd’s seen enough of Magnitogorsk and their preferred match-ups. She pulls Sasha down next to her.

“Plan,” she says.

Volkov hands her a whiteboard with a rink painted on it. He hands her a marker too, and she sets them up the way Coach likes them then shows the passing pattern she wants to use.

“Sasha again?” Volkov asks as she taps the 8 on the board. “It’s predictable.”

Syd’s smile is far from friendly. “Still can’t stop it.”

That’s what makes her and Sasha such a good pairing. He has one place he likes to score from and even though everyone knows it, they can’t stop it. Syd can score from anywhere and that threat is what helps to open Sasha up.

Sasha’s smile has the same edge. “We’re winning this game.”

#

Alekno scores the go-ahead goal late in the second period then Coach does his best to put Syd’s line out against Zhenya’s. She’s sure the theory is that if she and Sasha are on the ice then their puck possession is high enough to neutralize Zhenya as a threat.

It works in that Zhenya’s line doesn’t score again.

Syd plays more defense than Coach would probably like, but maybe he wants her flexing her defensive skills. She backchecks hard and battles along the boards even harder. She blocks a couple shots that sting in the moment and will hurt worse later, but Coach gives her a nod of acknowledgement after the first, and Alekno gives her a friendly facewash after the second.

They win 2-1, a satisfying win, because Syd feels like she had to work for it.

Plus, without a big offensive night to pester her about, the media leaves her alone. She takes her time in the shower because she can and when she emerges from the shower room the media has cleared out. She changes back into her game day suit.

“We’re going out tonight,” Volkov tells her.

“Dancing?” Syd asks.

Volkov narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m young,” she answers and laughs as he playfully takes a swing at her.

Back at the hotel, Syd pulls on a pair of leggings and a long t-shirt. It gives her more mobility than jeans while still being casual.

Sasha groans when he sees her. “No color? No sparkle?”

“Boring is good,” Alekno says.

“Boring?” Syd demands. She prefers dressing down, she’ll choose comfort over style everytime but… She tugs at the hem of her shirt then looks at Sasha. “Shopping?”

“No,” Alekno says.

“You’re not my dad,” she mutters, mulish, and a couple of the guys laugh.

“We’ll go shopping when we get home,” Sasha says. “Dresses?”

Syd makes a face.

“Denim jumpsuit?” Volkov teases.

“See if I hang out with any of you tonight,” Syd says.

They go to a loud, crowded club with dim lights and a sticky floor. Alekno wrinkles his nose but Berezhko laughs and tells him he won’t notice after a couple shots.

Syd stays at the table long enough for a few drinks to loosen her up. Once she doesn’t care that she doesn’t know the words to any of the songs and the heavy bass makes her restless, she slips out of the booth.

It involves some gymnastics and by the time she successfully extricates herself, there’s someone at their table.

Distressed denim, long legs, she’s smiling before she even sees his face. “Zhenya!”

He’s in a v-neck which shows off his chain. His hair is floofy as if he didn’t style it after his shower. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his smile is fleeting as if he hasn’t quite shaken off the loss.

She’s impressed that he’s here at all. After a loss, she doesn’t like being around her own team let alone the opposing one.

“Dance?” she asks.

The entire team shouts their protests, but Syd rolls her eyes and clasps Zhenya’s hand. It’s big and warm against hers.

“Drink first?” she asks.

This earns even more protests, but Syd ignores them and tugs Zhenya towards the bar.

“You played well,” she tells him after he orders.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about the game.”

“Why you come?”

The bartender puts two shots on the counter, one a double, the other a single. Zhenya knocks back the double and nudges the other towards her. “I wanted to see you.”

She takes her shot and hopes he attributes the flush on her face to the alcohol. “Me too.” She sets the glass down. “Dance? Unless… too tired?” She grins so he knows she’s kidding.

“Maybe  _ you’re  _ too tired.”

“Then you hold me up.”

Zhenya’s step falters and she tugs him onto the dance floor, deep enough that her teammates can’t see them. They can’t be interrupted if they can’t be found.

She finds a place for them and turns so her back is to him. Feeling daring, she wraps his arms around her waist. “Okay?” she shouts over the music.

He pulls her even closer which is all the answer she needs. He’s taller than her, and she has to be careful he doesn’t end up with a mouthful of her hair. They dance until his hands wander and he catches himself, his palm pressed against her stomach. She feels him go still behind her. He tries to pull away, but she covers his hand with hers.

“Okay?” she asks.

His nose brushes her cheek, and she shivers as his mouth finds her ear. “Okay, Sydney?”

Embarrassingly, her knees buckle, and she has to cling to him to stay standing. She turns her head to answer and her nose bumps against his. Their lips are centimeters apart. If she twists a little more…

She turns to face him. His hands slide to her hips, keeping her close but not holding her in case she wants to bolt. He stares at her through heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze dips to her lips, and she can’t help but lick them. She knew this had been building between them but, “Not yet,” she says.

Zhenya tilts his head, confused. It’s his turn to take her hand, and he pulls her through the club until they find somewhere where the music isn’t quite as loud.

“Not yet?” he repeats, brow furrowed. “You want to, though?”

She nods. She catches one of his hands between both of hers and she traces the lines in his palm then the length of his fingers.

“I, uh,” she doesn’t know how to talk about this in English let alone Russian. “I want to be good first.” She touches her lips then his.

He stares at her for a long moment before he shakes himself. “I don’t understand.”

“I want everything,” Syd confesses. “But I--it’s new. I need to practice.”

“New?” Now it’s Zhenya’s turn to touch, his fingertips gentle against her lips. “You’ve never?”

She shakes her head.

Zhenya makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

“I want to be good,” she says again. She wants to get all her mistakes out with someone else so Zhenya doesn’t laugh at her or turn her away. She doesn’t actually think he’d do either, but she’s too prideful to want to be anything but her best.

“You will be,” he promises. “But kissing is like…” he trails off, thinking. “Is like linemates. You want to practice with your partner.”

She stares at him, dubious, but he does have more experience here than she does. Finally, she nods and steps closer. “With you.”

He smiles, bright and brilliant and she goes up on her tiptoes even though he’s not that tall, because it feels like the right thing to do. Her lips meet his hand instead and she falls back on her heels with a scowl. “Now what?”

“Wait,” he says, and he looks as incredulous as she feels. “This isn’t the right place for your first kiss.”

“Zhenya,” she whines. Now that they’re doing this, she wants to _do_ _it_.

“Please?” he asks as if she’s the one denying him. “I want to do this right.” His hand curves over her cheek and she leans into the touch. “You deserve the best.”

She sighs because she can recognize stubbornness when she sees it. “How long?” 

“Next time we play we’re in Moscow. I’ll take you to a nice dinner.”

“Zhenya, no.”

“Flowers,” he continues.

She curls a hand around the back of his neck and draws him in close. She’s tempted to kiss him just to knock all this ridiculousness out of his head. She tucks her face against his sweaty neck instead. She doesn’t want to ruin anything. She’d just rather if Zhenya didn’t turn this into a huge production. 

She doesn’t know how long they stand like that, pressed close, before they’re bumped into by an overeager couple. They head back to the table, and every single one of Syd’s teammates stare at her mouth or her neck, trying to determine if anything happened.

Syd rolls her eyes and sits next to Sasha. “You the only one I like.”

“Hey,” Volkov protests but the entire table seems to relax. 

They don’t stay long, because they have an early flight. No one lets Syd close enough to Zhenya to hug him before they leave. She does stare though, gaze lingering on his legs, wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around her waist, and his hands, imagining them holding her close. Then his mouth, and Sasha drags her away as Zhenya stares back.

“He is a loser,” Sasha says.

“Be nice,” Syd tells him absently.

“A loser with soft hands,” Volkov teases.

Syd flips him off. Back at the hotel, she takes a quick shower before climbing into bed. She dreams of soft hands and even softer lips and she has to hit snooze twice before she drags herself out of bed in the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for your lovely comments! This week has somewhat gotten away from me so I won't be responding to last chapter's, but I wanted to at least send a blanket shout out to all of you. I love seeing all your reactions to the story in real time and the excitement over the things I got excited writing and the speculation over where things will go. <3

Now that she’s thinking about it, kissing is everywhere. There are couples on the streets who old hands and turn to kiss each other, quick kisses as if they’re making sure the other person is still there. Billboards for perfumes and necklaces show kisses, a moment frozen in time.

On the plane, they watch a show where a man and woman are  _ really _ into it. It’s loud, and Syd must stare because Berezhko flicks her ear and asks, “Looking for tips?” like an asshole.

“Don’t need,” she says breezily. She laughs at his slack-jawed expression. “You think there are no boys in North America?”

“You’re a child,” he says.

She rolls her eyes and tries not to think about the audience they’re accumulating. Their teammates pause their own shows and abandon their card games to eavesdrop. “How old were you?” she asks.

“We’re not talking about me.”

“Sasha kisses girls all the time.”

“Hey,” Sasha says but then he grins. “The ladies love me.”

“Shopping this weekend?” she asks him just to watch Berezhko struggle not to say anything.

“Turtlenecks only,” Volkov says, cheerful.

Syd laughs and pulls her book out of her bag. The guys go back to whatever they were doing before, and Syd makes it through two pages before she closes her eyes and thinks about Zhenya again.

#

She and Sasha  _ do _ go shopping, at a department store so hopefully they only have to make one stop. Despite her joking with the guys, she isn’t looking for clubwear. Right now her wardrobe is Dynamo gear and game day suits. She wants some casual clothes, things to wear when she doesn’t want her hockey team plastered everywhere.

Sasha holds up a pair of jeans with more holes than fabric.

“No jeans,” she says. She’s not explaining to him that she has to get them tailored. She’s chirped enough as it is.

She looks at a display of sweaters. They look cozy, and she picks up a couple to try. Of course, sweaters mean she needs something to wear under them, so she grabs a couple thick-strapped tank tops.

Sasha holds up something ruffled and with lace everywhere and her face is so horrified that he laughs and laughs and has to to lean against the nearest rack so he doesn’t fall over.

She leaves him there to look at niceish short sleeve shirts. 

“Time to try things on?” Sasha asks.

“By myself.”

“Okay,” he says, agreeing too easily, but he disappears before she can be too suspicious.

She keeps two of the sweaters, three of the shirts, and all of the tank tops. Since Sasha’s still missing, she ducks into the bra department. Overwhelmed by all the options and a little embarrassed, she grabs a lingerie set, the first one in her size, and buries it between the sweaters.

Then, of course, she has to find a register and she goes to the one in the shoe department, sure that Sasha won’t think to look for her there. She does such a good job hiding that she can’t find him once her purchases are safely in a bag.

She has to call him and they meet outside the store. He has a small bag that has… perfume in it?

“I smell bad?” she asks.

“Hockey,” he answers. “Not every boy likes that smell.”

Syd rolls her eyes but takes the perfume with a quiet thanks. Zhenya does like his cologne. Perfume can’t be  _ that _ bad. She lets Sasha drag her to a jewelry store where he touches everything and buys nothing. The owner must recognize him, because he doesn’t try to show them out of the store.

He does look at Syd then points Sasha towards more delicate chains with diamond pendants. Syd can’t quite hold back her snort of laughter which gets her a dirty look.

After the jewelry store, they go to lunch. It’s an unexpectedly nice afternoon and when it’s over, they join a couple of their teammates in the entertainment room. She sits close to Sasha, and he tucks her under his arm. Her stomach flip-flops as she realizes he smells faintly of cologne.

_ Oh _ , she thinks as she snuggles close.  _ Oh no _ .

#

The next off-day they have, Syd holes up in her room and calls Elizabeth.

“Syd!” Elizabeth greets when she picks up. “You haven’t called in forever. Russia keeping you busy?”

Sydney blushes and hopes Elizabeth won’t pick up on it over the phone. “Hockey’s a lot of work.”

Elizabeth laughs. “No fucking kidding. But you’ve been lighting it up out there. SportsNet is calling you and Ovechkin the Dynamo Duo. Cute, huh?”

“Sasha’s not cute.”

“Ruggedly handsome?” Elizabeth laughs again. When Syd doesn’t laugh with her, she says, “Yeah? What happened to the gangly one?”

Even though this is why she called Elizabeth, she still hesitates. “He’s far away. But I really like him. Next time we see each other we’re going to kiss.”

“Get it,” Elizabeth says, approving. Then, “Next time? Your plan or his?”

“Ugh,” Syd says then tells her all about the dance club and Zhenya and how he told her to  _ wait _ .

“A romantic, huh? He’s a keeper then.”

“But Sasha,” Syd says then doesn’t know where to go from there.

“Only you,” Elizabeth tells her. “No interest in boys until you go to Russia and find  _ two _ . Tell me about Sasha.”

Syd does. When she’s done she realizes that she really does like them both. She wants to ask Elizabeth what she should do, but Syd already knows the answer. She came to Russia because she didn’t want to compromise. She knew what she wanted and pursued it. Why should this be any different?

#

Magnitogorsk flies in a day early for the game. Syd practices with her team, hits the weight room then takes the quickest shower of her life. It isn’t until she’s back at the dorms that she takes a real shower. 

She washes her hair and conditions it. She shaves her legs for like only the second time since coming to Russia. She spends ten minutes slathering herself in lotion so her skin is smooth. By the time she’s done, the mirror is so fogged up she has to wait to finish getting ready.

She doesn’t have a blow-dryer so she dries her hair the best she can with a fresh towel. She pulls half of it back and leaves the rest down. Her clothes are next. She blushes as she changes into the lingerie set which is stupid because this is why she bought it. And it’s not like Zhenya will see it tonight. They both have early curfews because of tomorrow’s game so they won’t be out late. Or anywhere private enough for her to show him what’s under her clothes.

_ She’ll  _ know so she wears it, because it makes her feel braver, more daring. She sprays her perfume once in the air then spins around in the mist like Elizabeth used to do. It smells nice, not something she’d pick out for herself, but she trusts Sasha’s taste.

Her pants, like all of her pants, are tight. The shirt fits differently with a real bra underneath it. The mirror, finally clear enough to see in, shows a  _ girl _ when she looks at her reflection. She knows there’s a hockey player underneath the sweater and styled hair, but that’s not what defines her right now.

It makes her feel exposed. She tugs at the hem of her sweater. Maybe this is a bad idea.

Her phone buzzes with a text.

Zhenya: _ I’m looking forward to dinner with you _

And just like that all her nerves disappear. Well, some of them at least. Dinner is easy, eating and talking, but after dinner… a blush creeps up her cheeks and she shakes her head at herself.  _ Pull it together, Sydney _ .

She sends back a :) because her spoken Russian is leaps and bounds ahead of her written. She can navigate a menu and basic signs but that’s about it. She used a translator to read Zhenya’s text.

She squeezes her wallet into her back pocket and a couple mints into the other. She brushes her teeth then pokes her head out her door. The hallway is clear.

She doesn’t  _ sneak _ out of the dorms, but she’s glad when she doesn’t run into anyone. It takes her a couple false starts but she finds the steakhouse she and Zhenya are eating at. One of the toughest adjustments to playing in Russia is that she no longer has steak before big games. She likes Russian food and she’s glad that the team feeds them but sometimes she aches for her familiar routines.

Zhenya made the reservations, because Syd’s still leery of using her Russian around strangers. She gives Zhenya’s name to the hostess who smiles kindly at her before leading her to the back of the restaurant. There are private two-person booths back here. The hostess sits her at one with a lit candle between the place settings.

Syd flushes and the hostess pats her shoulder.

It doesn’t surprise her that Zhenya isn’t here yet. Syd’s early because she counted on getting lost a few times. A few minutes past six, Zhenya shows up, which is basically on time for him. He tried, and Syd knows he likes her but he must  _ really _ like her.

She smiles at him, helpless to do anything else. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up before bending down to brush a kiss over her cheek. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she echoes. She wants to turn her head and kiss him for real, but they’re in public so she settles for kissing his cheek like he had hers. 

He’s all smiles as he settles into the booth across from her. His feet knock into hers. The first time she chalks up to an accident. The second time, he grins at her, and she laughs before trapping one of his ankles between her feet. 

“Ha,” she says.

It probably would’ve escalated into all out war if their waitress hadn’t appeared then. She looks between them and smiles before saying something that makes Zhenya  _ preen _ .

“What would you like to drink?” she asks.

“Water,” Zhenya answers. He glances at Syd who nods. “Two waters please.”

Once she’s gone, Zhenya reaches his hand out, a little shy. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you.” She places her hand in his, because it’s less scary if they’re in this together. “You too.”

He’s in slacks and a button down. If she had to guess she’s say he’ll wear the same thing tomorrow for the game. Or maybe he packed an extra shirt knowing they were going out.

“Smell nice too,” he says. “Is it new?”

She nods. “Sasha got for me.”

“Sasha?”

Zhenya’s expression doesn’t change. Too late, Syd wonders if that was a weird thing to say. “He told me I smell like hockey.”

“Sasha is stupid. Don’t listen to him.”

Sydney shrugs. “You had good trip?”

He makes a so-so motion with his free hand. “I couldn’t nap. Too much energy. My teammates threw things at me.”

Zhenya laughs but there’s something in his eyes that makes her squeeze his hand and ask, “Nervous?”

“Little bit,” Zhenya admits.

“I like you,” Syd says. “No reason for worry.”

“Like me best?” He pokes his tongue out, teasing now. 

“Best,” she agrees. 

The waitress brings their waters and takes their orders. Sydney fumbles through hers, but Zhenya doesn’t laugh and doesn’t let her stew in her frustration. He tugs on their joined hands and brings up last night’s Pens game and that carries them through until their dinner shows up. 

They have to stop holding hands so they can eat, but their legs stay tangled together. It’s nice and Zhenya even lets her steal one of his sweet potato fries. 

“Are these on your list?” he teases, dangling a second in front of her.

She snatches it from him. “Yes.”

He laughs and she offers him some of her broccoli. 

“This isn’t a fair trade,” he says but still spears two florets. 

They move into talking about their seasons, because hockey is where Syd’s most confident with her Russian. Magnitogorsk is playing well right now, on a five game win streak. Zhenya’s fueling the surge, and Syd almost hopes Coach matches her up against his line so she can test her defensive skills.

Their waitress clears their plates and hands Sydney the dessert menu. 

“Oh,” she says. She doesn’t open it, because she doesn’t want to tempt herself. “Thank you, but I’m good.”

“Syd,” Zhenya chides. He takes the menu from her and points to a picture of a decadent looking cheesecake. 

“That’s not on my list,” she says, but she’s wavering.

“Then we share.” He turns to the waitress. “One slice of the cheesecake please.”

“Would you like a drizzle on it?”

Zhenya flips until he finds a berry cobbler and he points to the different berries for Syd.

“Blackberry?” she asks.

The waitress smiles as she takes their order back to the kitchen.

“I know what you like,” Zhenya says, smug.

She shouldn’t find it attractive, but she finds herself smiling back at him. And, when the waitress brings them their desserts, she takes her time with the first bite, holding Zhenya’s gaze as she slides the fork out of her mouth.

He stares, lips parted, and it’s her turn to be smug. “I know what  _ you _ like.”

“Yes,” he agrees and nudges the cheesecake towards her.

She nudges it back. “Share.”

They make quick work of the cheesecake after that, including a playful battle for the last bite. Syd isn’t ready to go back to the dorms yet. She turns right out of the restaurant and leads Zhenya to the nearby park.

They aren’t the only people out. There are couples walking their dogs and kids kicking soccer balls around. There are a lot of people holding hands, and it makes Syd brave enough to hold Zhenya’s. He looks surprised at first then smiles and tugs her closer to him.

They wander along the path until they find a somewhat secluded cluster of trees. They step off the path and Syd turns to Zhenya, expectant and a little hopeful.

“I waited,” she says.

“Killing me, Syd.”

He crowds close until her back is against a tree. There’s nowhere else for her to go, nowhere else she  _ wants _ to go. She licks her lips and tilts her head up.

Zhenya cups her face in his hands, his palms warm against her cheeks. He looks so serious, so determined. She wants to tell him she’ll like it no matter what because it’s  _ him _ . Maybe this is what he meant when he told her she didn’t need to practice.

His lips are soft as they touch hers. She keeps her eyes open, because she doesn’t want to miss anything. Zhenya’s are closed, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks. 

He pulls back and smiles when he sees her looking at him.

“Again?” she asks.

“Magic word?” he teases.

“Now.”

He’s laughing when she pulls him in for another kiss. His shoulders shake against hers and his mouth is open and it makes her laugh too. Objectively, it’s probably a terrible kiss, but she doesn’t care. She’s in the park with her… her Zhenya. Everything is good.

He kisses her once more, closed mouth then holds out his hand. “We have enough time for a walk.”

“But I  _ waited _ ,” she whines.

Zhenya waves his free hand around. You want to kiss with an audience?”

“No, but…” she can’t think of anywhere else they can go. “Ugh.”

Zhenya laughs. “Ugh,” he repeats, delighted.

The wind picks up, blowing her hair and she catches a whiff of her perfume. It makes her think of Sasha. It’s almost like he was here except if he was then he’d elbow his way between them, demanding they hold his hands and give  _ him _ kisses. It doesn’t sound terrible. She wonders if she should mention it to Zhenya.

Probably not tonight. She doesn’t want him thinking she didn’t have fun. Because she did. Dinner was good and Zhenya’s patient with her when they talk without making her feel slow, or stupid.

When they stop a block away from the dorms, she doesn’t want to let go of his hand. She wants to bring him back to her room and spend the night curled up next to him in bed. She wants to close her door behind him and really kiss him.

“Play hard tomorrow,” he says.

Syd scoffs. “Always. You too.”

He tucks her hair behind her ears and she tilts her face up.

“We fly out after the game,” he says, disappointed. “We should compare schedules and find a few days. If you want.”

Syd smiles. “I thought you knew what I want.” She goes up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I want to come visit you. You can show me your city.”

“Yes.” He rests his hands on her hips, squeezing them once before he takes a step back. He looks miserable about it.

She waves then takes a step back of her own. Then she takes a deep breath and walks away.


	12. Chapter 12

Syd scores the first goal of the game on her first shift of the night. It takes a little less than two minutes and she puts her team up 1-0.

It’s the only goal they score.

Zhenya scores the equalizer before the crowd has stopped cheering. He scores the game-winner on the shift after.

The game ends 1-4, and Syd’s glad they saw each other last night, because she isn’t a gracious loser. 

She tries to slip away to the showers after the game, but Alekno draws her back to her stall. “The media want to talk to you.”

She doesn’t want to talk to them. But as she looks from Alekno to Sasha, the two most popular media targets, she realizes they’re both exhausted. If she can lift some of the burden from them… she sighs and sits down in her stall.

She strips down to her underarmor, both because she wants to be comfortable and because she doesn’t want to see her team’s logo right now. She crushes a Gatorade and chokes down half a protein bar before she feels nauseous and has to set it aside.

The press pour in a minute later.

More of them break of to see her, maybe because they think she’s an easier target.

“You had Moscow’s only goal,” one reporter says, as if he can trick her into an unflattering headline.

“Not good enough,” she says.

All the reporters stand up straight at that.

“Magnitogorsk is test,” she says. She’s aware of her teammates turning their attention towards her as well. “We failed. Now, Coach works us hard and we get better.”

“What areas do you need to improve?”

_ Everything _ , she thinks, but that’s the loss and her limited vocabulary talking. She catches Berezhko’s eye from across the room. “How do you say momentum?” she asks.

He answers and she repeats the word a few times before she answers the reporters. “Momentum. We score first then play sloppy. Instead of build, they score. Now, they have momentum. Instead of stop, we let them build. We need to take charge. Grow our game and stop other teams’.”

She wrinkles her nose, unsure of how much of that got across.

“Are you dissatisfied with your game?” she’s asked.

“Why Moscow sign me?” she asks. When they don’t answer, she does. “To help win games. Tonight I have one goal. Good, yes, not good enough. Hit two posts, miss Sasha’s pass, miss Sasha on my pass. On ice for fourth goal. Defense needs to be better.”

Her whole scrum stares at her.

“Goal, yes,” she says. “But for me, bad game. Tomorrow, at practice, get better.”

“What’s your opinion on Khtey’s game?”

Alekno looks ready to intervene, like he thinks she’s stupid. She’d bare her teeth at him if there weren’t a dozen cameras on her right now. 

“Ask him,” Syd answers. “I’m only expert on my game.”

“You said you and Ovechkin didn’t connect well. How are you looking to improve your chemistry?”

“Practice.”

They wait for a longer explanation, but her patience is strained and Russian is hard. If they want more in-depth answers they should pester someone else.

They eventually figure it out and disperse. She grabs her towel and heads to shower. Her mood doesn’t improve, anger and frustration building with no outlet. If she were home then she’d talk through the game with her dad until she had a plan to improve on her shortcomings. If she was at Shattuck then she’d vent to Jack who could shout back until they exhausted themselves.

There’s no one here who understands her well enough for that and it only pisses her off more.

She stomps back to the locker room, pulling her clothes on with short, jerky motions. She almost turns her Dynamo shirt inside out but she isn’t quite that petty.

Then someone grabs her shoulder.

She knocks the offending hand away and spins, fury written into the curl of her lip. It’s Khtey. If the asshole knew what was good for him then he’d walk away.

“I don’t need your help,” he says.

“Don’t touch me,” she says back.

“Stuck up bitch.”

Someone swears. Someone else takes a step towards them but it’s too late, because Syd’s practically vibrating with how pissed she is, and Khtey’s made himself a target.

“You want truth?” she asks. “Your game is  _ shit _ . Should tell media? He let Zhenya score--twice--so Coach changes match-up and you on ice for  _ another _ goal.”

Khtey snarls and shoves her with two hands. She stumbles back but when she regains her balance she draws her arm back to throw a punch. Jack taught her after their baseball brawl.

Someone catches her wrist and she spins, breaking the hold. She doesn’t care who she takes a swing at as long as she hits  _ someone _ . Volkov ducks then shoves her against the row of stalls. It knocks the breath out of her and keeps her still long enough for shame to creep in. 

“Are you done?” he asks.

She nods.

Alekno ushers Khtey to the far side of the locker room, but Syd doubts she’ll get out of this without a captain scolding. Fuck. She hangs her head and curls her shoulders as if she can make herself smaller.

“I’m glad you didn’t say that to the press,” Volkov says.

She shouldn’t have said it in the locker room either. She knows better. She’s not a fucking  _ kid _ . But she lost her temper and she’s too young, too foreign, too  _ female _ to brush it off.

#

She isn’t sent back to Canada or even scratched for her blow up. 

Alekno pulls her aside to talk to her about managing the stress of the season, and the guys run interference for a week. Khtey has a three-point night and Syd buys him a drink and everyone seems to relax except Zhenya. Syd doesn’t even know how he heard about the fight--probably Sasha--but he keeps threatening to fight Khtey next time they play each other.

“Zhenya’s not this stupid, right?” Syd asks Sasha.

“You text Zhenya? You don’t text me.”

“I see you every day.”

They’re on Sasha’s bed, half-heartedly watching game tape. It had been Syd’s idea, but Zhenya texted her, and she’s distracted thinking about him and their kiss and how they can swing alone time so they can kiss again.

“Yes, you’re very lucky,” Sasha says.

Syd laughs, and he tickles her in revenge. She shrieks and kicks at him, but he pins her to the bed and tickles her harder. She dislodges him which sparks a wrestling match. She pins him with her thighs and that, of course, is when someone clears their throat. 

Alekno’s there, eyebrows raised.

And, well, Syd is straddling Sasha and her face is flushed from her victory, but… “Door is open,” she says.

Alekno just keeps walking and Sasha laughs.

“Shut up,” Syd says.

“Door is open,” Sasha repeats. “Maybe he likes to watch.”

Syd sprawls out so she’s lying on top of Sasha. “ _ You _ like to watch.”

There’s a moment where they stare at each other and Syd’s very aware of how their bodies are pressed against each other and that their faces are very close together.

But then Sasha waggles his eyebrows, breaking the moment.

“Hockey?” she asks.

“Hockey,” he answers.

#

They stumble, dropping four games in a row. Coach is so mad he actually walks out of practice. Syd turns wide, frightened eyes on Alekno.

“This isn’t an excuse to slack off,” their captain says then puts them through their most grueling practice yet.

Syd’s barely standing at the end of it, and she’s honestly a little afraid to shower on her own. At least if one of the guys falls asleep or his legs give out, someone will see. She leans against the wall as she showers, getting clean enough that she’ll be able to nap before taking a more thorough shower later.

But Alekno’s practice works. Despite the exhaustion, Syd feels as if she’s excised something, and she steps onto the ice, ready for the next challenge.

They win and win and win, and Syd and Sasha are leading the league in points and their line has been named the hottest in the RSL. 

By the time the first snow falls, Syd can’t freely wander the streets anymore. People recognize her now, a blessing and a curse. She takes to wearing a hat and it helps now that it’s cold enough to need one. 

“They’ve poured the outdoor rink,” Sasha says over breakfast.

They have the day off so most of their teammates are still in bed. A couple sit with a cup of coffee, a couple are leisurely eating. Syd’s trying to fill the gnawing hole in her stomach.

She pauses, though, at Sasha’s announcement. “Skate?” she asks.

Sokolov groans. “It’s an off-day.”

“Slow skate?” Syd amends.

“Figure skate?” Sasha teases. Then he grows serious again. “It wouldn’t be a workout.”

“Fun.” Syd nods, her smile suddenly shy. “After breakfast.”

“Hold up,” Sokolov says as Syd resumes shoveling food into her mouth. “You’re going skating at the park? Maybe I should go with you.”

“It’s an off-day,” Sasha reminds him. “You’re old and tired.”

“Door stays open,” Syd promises then laughs as Sokolov looks between them and gives up. 

#

Despite the joking it does feel a little bit like a date, Sasha taking her to skate with dozens of other couples. It’s even in the same park she kissed Zhenya for the first time.  Maybe that’s why she keeps looking at Sasha, his nose and cheeks pink from the cold, and wondering what it would be like to kiss  _ him _ .

Of course, there’s also families there and groups of friends and, on a second, smaller rink, there’s hockey.

“It’s an off-day,” Sasha reminds her as she grabs his hand and pulls him with her.

“Kids,” she says and Sasha gives up even his playful fight.

Sasha’s loud and exuberant and sometimes a lot, but kids love him almost as much as he loves them. Even after bad losses, he finds a smile for his smallest fans, giving them fist bumps or apologies for not playing better for them. He signs shirts and gives big hugs and lets them knock him over to show how strong they are.

They reach the hockey rink in the midst of a fight. There’s a cluster of boys who are leaning on their sticks, expressions hard. There’s a smaller group of kids, led by a girl with her hands on her hips.

“No girls allowed,” one of the boys says.

The girl huffs. “Tell that to Sydney Crosby. She’s better than all your favorites.”

No one argues and Syd flushes as Sasha elbows her.

“Ha,” the girl says, triumphant. “I’m playing. I get to be Sydney Crosby.”

And while it’s flattering… Syd steps onto the ice before she thinks it entirely through. “If you’re Sydney Crosby then who am I?”

Every one of the kids turns to her. A couple jaws drop. Syd waves, a little dorky, and elbows Sasha when he laughs.

“You can be Alex Ovechkin,” he tells her, because he’s an asshole.

“Maybe I want to be Evgeni Malkin,” she fires back.

“Only if you want to be a  _ bad _ hockey player.”

She laughs but shoves him, which is enough to loosen the kids’ tongues. They surge forward, excited, all of them talking at once and far too fast.

“Slower, slower,” Sasha says. “Gretzka is still learning.”

“It’s okay,” Syd says, uncomfortable. “I can skate.”

“Gretzka?” one of them asks.

“It’s Sydney,” she says.

“Gretzka is her team name,” Sasha agrees.

There are several obvious glances at the ice and the two nets.

It’s the girl who ventures a hesitant, “You could be on our team today.”

“It’s an off-day,” Sasha says, mouth turned down and serious only until all the kids look disappointed. Then he grins. “But who cares about rules when there’s hockey?”

“Worst role model,” Syd mutters, but she accepts the spare stick she’s handed and joins the team with the girl on it.

“I’m Alina,” she says. “Do they call you Gretzka because of Gretzky?”

“Yes.”

“I think you play more like Lemieux.”

“You like the Penguins?”

Alina grins, sharp like the icicles that hang down from the trees. “I like good hockey. Want to see?”

It’s a kids’ pick-up game so Syd does her best to set up Alina and Viktor and Andrei for goals instead of scoring them herself. There’s one time that she has a wide open net and passes through two players instead so Andrei can score.

“Seriously?” the goalie demands.

“Coach will be furious if you do that in a game,” Sasha says.

Syd shakes her head. “Good Russian hockey. Pass, pass, no selfish.”

“ _ Someone _ has to shoot,” Alina says.

“Yes. Is why I have Sasha on my wing.” Loudly, she whispers, “I am better Russian than Sasha.”

“Hey!” Sasha squawks then pulls her into a friendly headlock.

They tussle as the kids egg them on then Viktor imperiously sends them to the ‘penalty box.’ They sit on the edge of the rink and cheer their teams on as they continue to play. 

They never make it back to the ice.

Word spreads and people flock to the rink looking for autographs or just to see them in person. Sasha gets most of the attention but a lot of people stare at her, the strange Canadian girl who’s making her home in their city.

She signs everything she’s handed, including a styrofoam cup that still has hot chocolate in it. She makes Sasha do most of the talking.

“Still shy?” Sasha asks as they finally make their way back to the dorms. “Everyone here loves you.”

“My Russian is bad,” she says. “And this is your city.”

Sasha shakes his head and clasps her hand in his. Their fingers are cold. “Our city.”

For a moment she’s back in his room on her first trip to Russia when all they knew about each other were secondhand accounts from the media and their agents. He was afraid she was coming to Moscow to take the team from him. And now he’s trying to get her to take more of it.

Sasha, who’s larger than life and selfless, sharing the things he cares the most about. She smiles at him and tugs on their joined hands. He smiles back, and time seems to freeze between them like it did right before Zhenya kissed her. Her stomach swoops and her lips tingle in anticipation.

His eyes widen, surprised. He opens his mouth to say something but before he can Sokolov finds them.

“There you are,” he says. “City’s going crazy. There are reports of you two playing hockey at the square. They’ve got the police out directing traffic.”

Syd and Sasha exchange a look.

Sokolov takes in their coats and hats and the gloves sticking out of their pockets and groans. “Seriously?”

“We signed things,” Syd says. “Only played a little hockey.”

“You’ve shut down the whole block.”

“Oops?”

Sasha laughs. “Sokolov is a grumpy old man. Don’t let him ruin our day.”

“Hot chocolate?” Syd asks, hopeful. “My hands are cold.” 

Sasha cups her hands in his which would help more is his fingers weren’t as frozen as hers. 

“Seriously?” Sokolov asks again.


	13. Chapter 13

There’s definitely a Sasha situation. She doesn’t want to lead Sasha on, and she doesn’t want to hurt Zhenya. She focuses on hockey, racking up points, her name in the headlines with Sasha’s more often than not.

The next time she sees Zhenya it’s because Magnitogorsk is in town to play HC Spartak. Syd meets Zhenya at his team’s hotel.

“Hi Syd,” he says with a big smile as he opens his door.

Both beds are a rumpled mess, clothes strewn about the room even though he and his roommate haven’t even been here half a day yet.  _ Boys _ , she thinks as if her hotel rooms are ever neat.

“Hi Zhenya.”

His smile grows even wider, and he ushers her into her room. She can’t help but smile back, a little crooked. Part of her wants to draw him into a hug, cuddle him on his bed, smiling at each other without ever saying a word. It sounds  _ nice _ , but it’s also the cowardly thing to do.

_ What if you lose this? _

It’s a fear that’s stuck with her since she realized they needed to have this conversation and, as much as she hates to think about it, she might lose him. But she came to Russia to work for the things she wants and yes, it began with hockey, but it turns out there are so many more things for Russia to offer her.

If this is going to be her home, and that looks more and more likely with each passing day and conspicuous silence from the NHL, she wants the best life she can have. 

He closes his door and turns back to her. He’s in team sweats and a t-shirt, the collar stretched out as if he tugs on it a lot. It’s loose in the shoulders, making him look smaller than he is.

“You’re losing weight,” she says.

He sighs as if this is something he hears all the time. “All my clothes are too big. Coach’s way of telling me to grow into them.”

“Hmm,” Syd says, not convinced. “We should go to dinner tonight.” She tugs at the extra material on his shirt. “How are you so skinny? Food here is heavy.”

“It tastes good.”

Syd can’t argue with that. She realizes she’s petting Zhenya’s sides and forces herself to stop. “Want to talk.”

Zhenya’s goofy smile slips into something more guarded. Apparently those words are ominous no matter the language. 

Syd sits down on Zhenya’s bed and he sits next to her, space between them as if he thinks she needs it.  _ He  _ might need it so she doesn’t scoot closer.

“When we first--do you remember club?” She wrinkles her nose, already frustrated with the language barrier and they haven’t even started. There’s no way this doesn’t end in some kind of miscommunication. “You say kissing is like linemates.”

Zhenya nods, slow, as if he’s trying to puzzle out where she’s headed.

“Lines are three people,” Syd says then waits for him to understand.

It doesn’t take long. He nods at what she says then pauses, head cocked to the side. He stares at her, and she stares evenly back. Confusion then hurt flash across his face, because he’s always been expressive like no one sat him down in a hard wooden chair and explained to him the importance of protecting his feelings. 

“Syd?” he asks, hesitant, as if he thinks there’s been a language breakdown.Then, “Sasha?”

“You are close,” Syd says because she watches them, how they come together then, when their edges grind and spark how they fight. They’re competitive but care about each other, and Syd thinks the three of them could be something special.

“Yes but not…” here Zhenya falters as if he can’t even bear to name it. The hurt returns as he asks, “You and Sasha?”

She shakes her head. “Close but not like me and you.”

“You want though?”

She nods. “I like you.” She reaches a hand out, her turn to be hesitant as if he might pull away. But he slips his fingers between hers and holds her hand as she talks. “You are nice and funny. I am happy when I’m with you.”

That’s only a fraction of what she feels, but she doesn’t have the words to say more. She squeezes Zhenya’s hand and hopes he understands. 

“Sasha also is funny,” she says. “I laugh a lot. We play good hockey and wrestle and go out. When we come back, I’m want to kiss. I don’t. And I don’t have to. But want. And wonder if you want too.”

“If I want you to kiss Sasha?”

“If  _ you _ want to kiss Sasha.”

Zhenya is quiet as he thinks, the silence stretching between them. It isn’t uncomfortable, but she does grow restless. She does her best to sit still, but her fingers flex around his a couple times. 

Finally, he says, “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?” 

“You never think about before,” she says. “Okay to not know. Okay if answer is no. Okay if answer is yes. Want you to think a little. Like linemates. Could be good. But not need.”

Zhenya stills looks puzzled. She scoots until they’re pressed thigh-to-thigh. She glances over her shoulder at the closed door. “How long?”

“Long enough,” he says and leans in to kiss her.

#

They go to dinner, and she’s surprised to find Sasha waiting for them when they’re shown back to their table. She hesitates, her turn to be confused.

“You told me to think,” Zhenya murmurs, quiet, just for her. “I’m thinking but I also want to see. Okay?”

“Okay,” she answers. She smiles at Sasha and slides into the booth across from him. “Hungry?”

“Always,” Sasha answers. He looks between them, a thousand questions in his eyes before he shrugs and pushes the menu at her. “You two were slow, I already know what I want.”

“Zhenya changes  _ three  _ times,” Syd says.

Zhenya pokes her, and she laughs and wriggles as he pokes her again. Trapped between him and the wall, she doesn’t have anywhere to escape. 

“Wanted to dress up for me?” Sasha croons, teasing.

Zhenya stops poking Syd immediately, stops moving, even stops breathing. Sasha looks between them, eyes wide. Syd bites back a sigh. This isn’t the place she wanted to have this conversation and, glancing at Zhenya, she’s not sure they’re ready for this conversation yet. 

Zhenya says something too quick for Syd to follow. Sasha’s gaze flicks to her before he looks at Zhenya and answers, equally quick. They go back and forth, Zhenya’s shoulders drawn up towards his ears, and Sasha’s eyes narrowed.

Syd wants to step between them, wants to translate even though she doesn’t know what they’re saying. But slowly, Zhenya’s shoulders come down and Sasha doesn’t look quite so severe. This time, when Sasha looks at her, there’s a slight smile playing at his lips.

“Linemates?” he asks. “Everything is hockey.”

“Zhenya say first!”

“I didn’t know  _ this  _ is where you’d go,” Zhenya says. 

“You two are…” Sasha glances between them. 

“Yes,” Syd answers. 

“And you want me?” 

“Yes,” Syd answers again.

Zhenya echoes her a moment later.

Sasha still doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he grins. “Everything is better when I’m involved.”

“Lies,” Zhenya says. 

“Syd agrees.”

Both boys turn to her, but she’s spared from having to answer by the waitress coming to take their drinks. She takes their food order while she’s there then leaves them to stare at each other again.

By unspoken agreement, they keep things light, talking about how their football clubs are doing and if Spartak is going to put up any kind of fight tomorrow or just roll over for Zhenya’s team. They don’t linger over their meal, though, and they don’t stay for dessert. 

They return to the dorms, and Sokolov waves at them. He pauses when he sees Zhenya then shrugs and waves again. 

They go to Syd’s room because she doesn’t have a roommate, and Berezhko clears his throat when he sees Syd and Sasha duck into her room. Zhenya pokes his head out.

“Oh,” Berezhko says. “Hi Malkin.”

“Hi. We’re going to watch a movie.”

“Have fun,” he says and wanders away.

No one says anything about keeping the door open and as Syd shuts her door, she realizes there might be added benefits to the three of them being together. Syd alone in a room with Sasha? Not allowed. Syd alone in a room with Zhenya? Doubly not allowed. But Syd hanging out with both of them? Fine.

She leans against her closed door and observes the hockey players she brought back with her. Sasha looks as excited about the prospect of a closed door as she does. Zhenya’s back to being quiet, shoulders drawn up but not nearly as much before.

“Talk?” Syd asks. 

Sasha makes a face but he sits on her couch. “You want both of us?”

“Yes.”

She holds her breath, waiting for him to make a crack about how Zhenya isn’t enough for her. Zhenya’s pinched around the eyes, shoulders tight as if he’s braced for the same thing. But Sasha shows that he’s taking this seriously by asking, “Why?” instead.

Zhenya looks at her, curious, because she hadn’t given him much of an answer the first time. She told him that she thought they were both fun to be around, both attractive, and that’s true. But what they want to know is why she wants to make it work with both of them when she could be happy with one.

“I come to Russia for what I want,” she answers.

Sasha nods. “Hockey.” He smiles too because everyone in the world knows that.

“At first, yes,” Syd agrees. “But Russia is home now. Want it to be perfect. Want  _ everything _ .” She ducks her head, unable to meet either of their gazes. “Maybe am bad Russian. Selfish.”

“No,” Sasha says as Zhenya wraps her up in a hug.

“Best Syd,” he says, fervent and believing. “It isn’t selfish to have a big heart.”

“You want to share,” Sasha adds.

It’s close to what she wants but not quite. “Not share.” She holds her hand out to Sasha. “Together. All of us.”

“Like linemates,” Zhenya says, teasing. 

She elbows him but says, “Yes,” because that’s as close as she can get to explaining. Then, because this is equally important. “Hockey, I chase. I come to Russia. I make place on team. I play and no one stops me. This is little bit different.” She looks at Zhenya then at Sasha. “I want, yes, but don’t force. If you don’t want then we don’t do.”

“I want,” Zhenya says and he holds his hand out to Sasha as well.

“Don’t have to decide now,” Sydney says.

Sasha laughs and clasps both of their hands, letting them pull him to his feet. 

“Lazy,” Zhenya chides. 

Sasha grins as he steps closer to them. “You like me anyway.”

And, well, it’s not like Zhenya can deny it. Sydney giggles as Zhenya glares and Sasha smirks, because this might actually work. 

“Now what?” Sasha asks.

It’s Syd’s turn to smirk. “Zhenya teaches me to kiss. Could show.”

She shares a look with Zhenya before they push Sasha back down on the couch, but they follow a moment later. 

“You two are kissing?” Sasha asks. He looks hopeful. “Or you’re kissing me?”

Syd turns to Zhenya, considering. Then a wide smile breaks over her face. “Hey, Zhenya. How do you say 2-on-1 in Russian?”

#

Syd and Sasha go the Luzhiniki Small Sports Arena to watch Zhenya play hockey. The building strikes Syd as odd even though this isn’t her first time seeing it. There are columns lining the front and sides that remind her of a museum. It’s old and small, only holding eight-and-a-half thousand fans unlike Dynamo’s area which can hold over twelve thousand.

Of course, the CSKA Ice Palace barely holds five thousand.

Not for the first time, Syd’s grateful that Brisson has enough connections, and foresight, to help her get onto  _ this  _ team. There are bad teams in the NHL, sure, but it’s nothing like the RSL where the top team and bottom team play like they belong in different leagues. 

In an arena like this, there’s no such thing as a bad seat. Well, if Magnitogorsk wasn’t here then every seat would be a bad one. But with Zhenya taking the ice for warm-ups, Syd feels magnanimous. 

They sit near enough the ice to have a good view of Zhenya as he skates but not so close that they’ll be caught on camera. They’re both in nondescript tracksuits, and Syd’s collar is up in both deference to the cold and not being recognized. 

They ate beforehand, because Sasha warned her that, “the food there is shit”. They also have power bars stashed in their pockets. Syd feels like a baby again, eating every three hours. Or maybe she never grew out of that stage.

She looks at the, mostly, Russian players taking the ice and thinks back to hockey in North America. She was called baby more times than she can count. Whiner was up there as a top insult. Bitch, obviously. There were some more creative ones and some less creative ones. 

For the most part, she doesn’t know what the opposing players here call her. She understands tone well enough to know when someone’s pissed at her, but she’s never made it a point to dig into what exactly they snarl between plays and after she’s scored. 

It feels like inviting trouble she doesn’t need.

Besides, the less riled up she gets over hits and insults, the less her team responds. When she needs them, they’re there, something she grew used to in Shattuck and is glad she didn’t have to give up here, but they aren’t stupid about defending her. Maybe because they trust her to handle most things on her own. Maybe because because they know Coach would be up their ass for making stupid decisions.

Either way, this team, this League, it could be home.

It probably will be.

Feeling daring as a fan in an enemy arena, she leans against Sasha’s side.

“Gretzka?” he asks, surprised.

She rests her head against his shoulder. “I bet that Zhenya ends with three points. One goal, two assists.”

“Ha,” Sasha says. “We’re here. Three goals.”

“I thought you were the showoff,” she says then laughs when he jostles her off his shoulder.

#

Two minutes into the game, Zhenya streaks up the ice on a breakaway. He dekes and dangles until the goalie’s out of his net then he flicks his wrists, snapping the puck into the top corner and Syd’s mouth goes dry.

“Oh,” she says. 

“See?” Sasha says. “Showoff.”

#

Zheyna scores two goals and notches one assist and Syd and Sasha argue the whole way back to the dorms about which one of them was closer to predicting it. 

“Aw, are the children fighting?” Sokolov asks. 

Rookie mistake, because Syd and Sasha find common ground in teaming up against him. It leads to a wrestling match which leads to yelling which leads to more of the team coming to investigate which leads to an even bigger wrestling match. 

At the end of it, everyone’s too tired to move and Syd ends up sandwiched between Sasha and Sokolov with Grankin’s legs draped over hers.

It’s nice. 

She closes her eyes. 

#

The next time they see Zhenya is after Magnitogorsk is blown out of the water by St. Petersburg, and Sydney learns that while Zhenya is grumpy and snappish after losses, he isn’t so grumpy that he says no to kisses.

They’re sharper than she’s used to. Zhenya always kisses her like she’s fragile, like she’ll shatter and he’ll lose her if he kisses too hard. It’s Sasha who kisses with with a hand curled around her hip and his teeth stinging her lips as if he doesn’t leave a mark then she’ll forget he was here.

Tonight, though, Zhenya’s teeth scrape down her neck, and she gasps then has to cover her mouth with her hand, because if she’s too loud then someone will come investigate and how do they explain this?

Tonight, it’s Zhenya who kisses with desperation as if someone will burst through the doors and drag him away for not playing well enough. Syd pets his sides and kisses him deeper, does everything to show him that she isn’t going anywhere.

It’s Sasha who sits back against the bed then yanks Zhenya back against him, pinning him with his arms and legs. 

“You’re ours,” Sasha says and bites Zhenya’s ear until it’s his turn to gasp. 

Syd slips between their legs, looks at Zhenya’s face, flushed pink, eyes wild, then behind him at Sasha. Sasha grins and she leans in to kiss him before she turns her head to kiss Zhenya. 

Sasha whispers in Zhenya’s ear, Russian words that make him squirm and pant, and Syd slides down until she can tug his pants off. 

“Syd,” Zhenya groans. 

She takes the lube out of her drawer and breaks the seal. The pop of the cap seems too loud. Zhenya groans again and squirms, but Sasha holds him still. The lube had been a late night purchase in Minsk. No one asks questions when she slips into a pharmacy and they don’t ask to look into her bag anymore.

Next time, she might buy condoms too. 

For this time, though, she squeezes the bottle and then warms the lube in her hands. 

“You’re too nice,” Sasha says. 

She glares then hesitantly curls her hand around Zhenya’s dick. She’s seen her fair share of them in locker rooms over the years but there’s a firm no looking rule so mostly she’s seen glimpses. And she’s never seen one like  _ this _ , half-hard and growing harder. 

She doesn’t look much now, gaze finding Zhenya’s face so she can catalogue every gasp, every twitch, every time he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. She learns what he likes and what he likes even more. So far, there hasn’t been anything he doesn’t like.

“Tell me,” she says.

She doesn’t know if she means for him to tell her what she’s doing right or what he wants to her to do. Either way, she doesn’t have the vocabulary yet for the words that tumble from his mouth.  _ Soon _ , she thinks then tightens her grip as she slides her hand up and  _ oh _ , he  _ really  _ likes that. 

She does it again, fascinated by how Zhenya’s whole body tries to bow, only held in place by Sasha’s steady hold. She’s turned games around with her hands and won championships and carved out a home in Russia. But there’s so much more she can do with them than play hockey.

She twists her wrist and Sasha claps a hand over Zhenya’s mouth so the sound he makes is muffled. 

“Again,” Sasha tells her, his voice rough as if  _ he’s  _ the one being taken apart. 

She does it again then again then Sasha’s hand joins hers and Zhenya barely lasts a minute after that. It’s loud and messy and Syd stares at her hand until Sasha passes her a tissue. 

“Good?” Sasha asks.

Syd nods then glances at Zhenya. “Good?” she asks.

He gives her a thumbs up and she laughs. He tips her so she’s lying down then stretches out over her, blanketing her with his gangly limbs.

“Hey,” Sasha says. He pokes Zhenya’s shoulder. “No sleeping yet.”

Zhenya grunts and ignores him. But he does worm a hand between his and Syd’s bodies, tugging the waistband of her pants down and--

“Not sleep,” she tells Sasha then presses into Zhenya’s touch the best she can with no leverage. “Very-ah-awake!”

Sasha shoves at Zhenya’s shoulder until he can see and Zhenya groans but sits up and then  _ Sydney  _ can see. Her pants and underwear are shoved down to mid-thigh and Zhenya’s hand is between her legs, his fingers long and perfect. 

She tilts her hips then rolls them down. She grins and does it again. “You reading me?” she asks.

“No hockey,” Zhenya says but he crooks his fingers and yeah, he’s definitely reading her. 

She reaches out to grab Sasha’s hand and pulls him close. She wants to kiss him, but she doesn’t want to stop watching Zhenya. Sasha lies down beside her. 

“Still like Zhenya’s hands?” Sasha croons in her ear. She shivers and can feel Sasha’s answering smile. “Big hands. Soft hands. Always so gentle with you, though.” He brushes Syd’s hair out of her face. 

Syd had never kissed someone before Zhenya, but she’s fingered herself before. She knows the signs that she’s getting close, the way her lungs can’t pull in enough air like she’s at the end of a long shift and how her calves tighten and her toes curl. Her entire body tenses, knowing something’s going to happen. Then, when it does, she gasps, air rushing out of her body as she sinks back against the bed. 

She smiles up at Sasha then down at Zhenya. 

Zhenya smiles back at her and dips his head down to press a feather light kiss against her belly button. She squirms, unsure whether to giggle or nudge him and ask for more. 

When he slides his fingers out of her, Sasha hands him a tissue. Zhenya tosses it in the direction of the trashcan then grins and rolls onto Sasha, pinning him against the bed. She hands Zhenya the bottle of lube, because she thinks she knows where this is going. She runs a hand through Sasha’s hair and watches Zhenya tug Sasha’s pants down. 

They argue while Zhenya jerks him off. Syd would worry at the bite in their words except they grin at each other, teeth-bared and egging each other on. And from what she does pick up, she thinks they’re chirping each other about what they like. Sasha says something about  _ gentle _ and Zhenya slows his hand to a glacial pace and bats his eyelashes and asks, “Better?”

Sasha actually growls and Syd has to push his shoulders down to keep him on the bed.

“First time,” Syd says, her own touch light as she touches Sasha’s neck and his face and the curve of his ears. “Okay to be gentle.”

“It’s not my first time,” Sasha says.

“With Zhenya, yes.” Syd kisses him, almost two sweet given what they’ve done in her bed already. “Let him treat you right.”

She grins at Sasha who is outraged then Zhenya who looks like he wants to go harder now but doesn’t want to give in to Sasha’s demands. 

“Minx,” Sasha says, a little awed, and she leans down to kiss him.


	14. Chapter 14

She plays hockey.

When possible, she meets up with her boyfriends and they steal kisses or touches, always with their ears trained in case someone decides to barge into her room. 

Time passes faster than she ever thought it would and before she knows it, it’s spring, and there’s still one last push before the playoffs, but her family finally makes the trip out. And, as she learns when they show up at practice, they brought someone with them.

“Elizabeth!” Sydney exclaims and it’s a good thing it’s the  _ end  _ of practice, because she abandons her teammates to hug Taylor then Elizabeth then her parents. She looks at the four of them, disbelieving even though she knew they were coming (her family at least) and knew it was today.

But Russia is Russia and her family is her family and now they’re colliding, and Syd’s heart is so full she’s afraid it’ll burst.

She hugs everyone again and snaps at Sokolov in Russian when he teases her for it. 

“Lunch?” she asks her family. Then, realizing that she can speak English and they can keep up, words spill out of her mouth. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know you wanted to come for the playoffs, but it didn’t work out and that’s fine. I know I’m going to play good hockey no matter what games you’re at and this way I’ll be able to see even more of you. They keep us on lockdown for games, and I’m sure it’ll be even worse during the playoffs, and I would’ve hated if you came all the way out here and I didn’t even get to see you.”

“Wow,” Elizabeth says.

“Don’t look at me,” Berezhko says, somewhere behind her. “I didn’t follow that.”

Sydney’s mom pulls her in for another hug. “We missed you too, sweetie.” Then she steps back. “Maybe you should shower before we hug again.”

Syd laughs even as she feels tears prickle in her eyes. “Yeah, I can do that.” She takes a step towards the locker room before she realizes that showering means leaving them behind and--

“Mr. and Mrs. Crosby!” Sasha greets. Then he kneels down so he’s eye level with Taylor and in English says, “Your sister is very good player. And very good friend.”

Taylor glances up at Sydney and once she sees Sydney’s smile, she holds her hand out. “I’m Taylor Crosby.”

“Alexander Ovechkin,” he tells her. “But you can call Sasha. Is special name but you are special girl, yes?”

“Sasha?” Elizabeth asks. She gives Syd an all too knowing look and Syd flees for the showers. 

When she emerges, decked head-to-toe in team gear, Sasha’s still with her family. He’s standing now, chatting with her parents. Elizabeth watches him, knowing, and every time he glances at her, he stutters and a flush rises on his cheeks.

“Hi,” Syd greets and they all turn to her. “Lunch?” To Sasha, in Russian, she says, “We can wait for you.”

He shakes his head. “Spend time with your family. I get you the rest of the time.” He squeezes her shoulder then waves to the Crosbys before plodding down to the locker room.

“He seems like a nice boy,” Trina says. 

“That’s because you haven’t gotten to know him yet.” Then, because one day she might  _ introduce  _ him to her parents she adds, “He is nice. I have a good team here.”

“I’m glad,” Trina says.

Taylor tugs on Syd’s sleeve. “Lunch?” she asks.

Syd grins and escorts them down the street to her favorite Russian restaurant. Basha steps out of the kitchen to greet her then pauses when she sees that Syd has company. Her shock only lasts as long as it takes her to realize who Syd’s brought with her then she beams and draws them in, chattering too quickly for Syd to translate.

Once she’s gone to the kitchen, no order taken, Syd says, “That’s Basha. She makes really good food.”

When she returns with a small pastry for Taylor, she taps the Dynamo logo in Taylor’s shirt. “Best team,” she says.

Taylor turns the flaky bread over in her hands. “What is it?”

“Knowing Basha, there’s chocolate in it,” Syd says. 

Basha laughs, recognizing Syd’s dark tone. She pats Syd’s cheek. “Don’t tell me your sister also has a list of approved foods.”

“Thank you,” Syd says instead.

Taylor echoes her, clumsy in her Russian pronunciation but Basha looks so charmed, Syd’s afraid they’re going to be sent home with a whole box of pastries.

“She’s very nice,” Syd explains once Basha has gone back to the kitchen. “I come here sometimes when I don’t want to eat at the dorm.”

_ When I need a warm smile and solid hug. _

Her mom tears up.

Taylor offers a piece of chocolate-filled pastry to Syd.

“I can’t,” Syd says, “but Elizabeth might want some.”

“It’s not good to deny yourself things,” Trina tsks as Taylor shares with Elizabeth instead.

_ I only deny myself some things _ . She decides now is not the time to broach the subject of her two boyfriends. 

“I have a strict training schedule,” Syd says. “I eat plenty but only what I’m supposed to.”

“Only?” Elizabeth asks with a grin. “No more sneaking Reese’s?”

Sydney flushes, caught, but also because Zhenya always has them when they see each other. Sometimes it’s a bag of mini-cups. Sometimes it’s a King-Size pack with four regular size cups; one for him, one for Sasha, and two for Syd. 

It’s Sasha who buys her truffles when she’s on her period. She has the money, and the Russian now that she can go out and find both of these things for herself. But they like to give them to her and she likes that they make the effort. Besides, there are things she gives them too. They’re learning each other, slowly it seems sometimes because it’s a long way from Moscow to Magnitogorsk. 

“Tell me everything,” Syd says.

“I think that’s our line,” Elizabeth drawls. 

Syd doesn’t know how to explain how much she’s missed  _ home _ and English and the familiar stories about Shattuck and her parents’ neighbors and how much Taylor hates school. And they tell her. She soaks up everything as she eats what Basha brings, and it startles her every time to hear English in her ears and taste Russian on her tongue.

She’s home but they’re telling her about home, and she wants them here, but they make her ache for a place she left behind. 

She’s almost glad when she has to go back to the dormitory. She goes to the rec room and plops down on the couch next to Sokolov. She tucks herself under his arm.

“What are you, a cat?” he asks, but he doesn’t push her away. 

_ Home _ , she thinks and hates the NHL for not already offering her the opportunity for a different one.

#

They play Magnitogorsk while Syd’s family is here which means Zhenya meets her family and, maybe more worryingly, Elizabeth now has faces to put with both boys in Sydney’s life. 

But then Zhenya kneels down in front of Taylor and pulls a small stuffed doll out of his pocket and this isn’t something she was prepared for at all.

“Spasibo,” Taylor says then looks to Syd to make sure she got it right.

“Very good,” Zhenya praises in English. He holds the doll out and points to its blondish brown hair. “She is like you.”

“Is she a goalie?”

Zhenya laughs and bends her cloth legs into something approximating a butterfly. “All Crosbys good at hockey?”

“Syd’s the best,” Taylor says.

Zhenya nods along, serious. “Syd is best.”

When Zhenya stands, the doll safely in Taylor’s hands, Troy extends a hand and a surprised, “You speak English.”

“Very little,” Zhenya says. He shakes Troy’s hand then opens his arms to Trina. She looks surprised but allows the hug. “I’m want NHL.”

“Ah,” Troy says. “Any teams catch your eye?”

Zhenya glances at Sydney and she finds herself in position of translator.

“Favorite NHL team,” she tells him.

His entire face lights up. “Penguins.”

“What is this?” Berezhko asks, coming over. “Gretzka, you’re introducing the  _ enemy _ to your family?”

“Zhenya’s not the enemy,” Sydney says. “And you speak English. Quit being rude.”

Berezhko puffs up like an offended bird then sheepishly says, “Hello, Crosby family.”

“I’m not family,” Elizabeth pipes up. “I’m a friend.”

“We went to school together,” Sydney explains.

Berezhko lights up. He mimes swinging a baseball bat. “You are Gretzka’s fighting friend?”

Elizabeth laughs. “No, that’s Jack. I play soccer.”

“Football,” Syd whispers, loudly.

Taylor looks between them before asking, “Who’s Gretzka?”

“It’s my nickname here,” Syd says. She can see the minute Taylor’s about to share  _ her  _ nickname for Syd and Syd claps a hand over Taylor’s mouth. “That’s only for family.” Because she absolutely doesn’t need people in Russia calling her Squid. 

“You look like you have stories, little Crosby,” Berezhko says.

“My friend,” Zhenya says, moving closer to Taylor. 

“Gretzka?” Troy asks, eyebrows lifted. 

“Not my idea,” Sydney says, because she would never have presumed to name herself after Wayne Gretzky. 

“I know,” Troy says. He puts a warm hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad they see your worth here.”

_ Oh. _ Syd smiles and leans back against her dad.

#

They play Magnitogorsk and Sydney excels with her family in the stands. Maybe she shows off for them a little too, because she has a three-point night and her lone goal was an unassisted  _ beauty _ .

“Well,” her dad says when she meets her family outside the locker room once she’s showered. “They certainly know how to play you.”

“They do,” Sydney agrees.

#

She takes Elizabeth to a football game, just the two of them. 

“Dynamo Moscow?” Elizabeth asks when she picks up a roster. “I thought that was you.”

“All the teams have the same name.”

“Cause  _ that’s  _ not confusing.”

Syd laughs and they grab food before finding their seats. They’re good seats, near enough to the pitch to be able to tell which player is which. 

“Have you met any of them?” Elizabeth asks.

“The team’s pretty insular.”

“Uh-huh,” Elizabeth says, her tone dangerous. “Except when you invite over hunks from the other team.”

“Zhenya isn’t  _ hunky _ .”

“Cute though. In a dopey sort of way. You do realize that both those boys are in love with you, right?”

“We’re teenagers. Love isn’t--it’s new.”

“Sasha seems like trouble.”

Syd laughs. “They’re both trouble, just in different ways.”

The players are still warming up on the field. Elizabeth leans closer. “So?” she asks, voice low, as if she’s afraid of being overheard in a stadium where probably only a handful of people speak their language. 

Syd blushes, all the way up her neck to her ears. She knows what Elizabeth is asking. She heard more than she wanted to last year about Jack’s smile and his eyes and the way he could lift her up onto her bed even though she’s a stocky soccer player. It had been weird because it was  _ Jack _ , her teammate and friend and why did she want to know that he used just the right amount of tongue when he kissed?

“How does it work?” Elizabeth asks. “With two of them?”

“There’s usually some flailing,” Syd answers, truthful and with a little laugh. “But it’s fun. We’re all friends. Sasha makes sure I don’t take things too seriously. I make sure the two of them don’t get so busy arguing they forget that they actually like each other.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth asks.

“We’re hockey players. Everything is a competition. Sometimes it’s a good thing. Sometimes not. There’s never enough time, though. It’s stolen kisses and cuddling with a movie and sometimes a little more. Which is more than we had before, but the more I have the more I want.”

“Maybe you and Sasha can get an apartment next year.”

Syd laughs. “Alekno won’t let us be in a room with the door closed. There’s no way they’ll let us move in together.”

“You and your boytoys make out with the door open?”

“When it’s the three of us then it’s just buddies,” Sydney says. “No one thinks to police that.”

“Are they stupid?”

Sydney laughs again and they turn their attention to the field as the game begins.

#

She’s permitted one night out of the dorms. It’s her family’s last day in Moscow, and as soon as practice is over, she spends the rest of the day with them. They get Chinese food which Taylor thinks is hilarious, she keeps breaking into hiccuping giggles every time she remembers, and Syd sits on one of the beds in the room, tucked between Elizabeth and her mom with Taylor draped across her legs.

Her dad’s on the other bed, flipping through channels. 

“Can you follow this?” Elizabeth asks when they pause on a soap.

It’s one of Zhenya’s, he claims he watches for his mother but he’s a liar. Syd knows the plot because he’s explained it to her a dozen times, but the characters talk too fast and with too much inflection for her to follow.

“Not yet,” she answers.

“Next year when we visit?” Taylor asks.

“Maybe we can watch cartoons,” Syd answers. 

“Are you still learning? Even though you’re leaving soon?”

“Not that soon,” Syd answers. It’s the wrong thing to say, because it makes Taylor sniffle and bury her face in Syd’s shins. 

#

That night, Sydney curls up in bed with Elizabeth. 

“You’re happy here,” Elizabeth says.

“The NHL still doesn’t want me,” Syd whispers back. “I might need to stay here for a long time.”

“How long?”

“I’m a hockey player,” Sydney says. “It’s all I know how to do.”

Elizabeth draws her close and doesn’t say anything when Sydney’s shoulders shake.

#

After Syd’s family leaves, it’s a race to the playoffs. The higher they’re seeded, the easier path they’ll have. If they play one of the bottom two teams then they’re almost guaranteed a trip to the semifinals.

Or so Sydney’s teammates tell her. She’s never believed in guarantees. She works hard for everything she gets. 

And she works hard for this. She trains on the ice and trains off it. She spends meals discussing strategy and when her teammates get tired of talking hockey she camps in Coach’s office. She’s nearly fluent in hockey now, able to argue for more minutes and harder match-ups and, even though it feels like a betrayal, suggesting that he split up her and Sasha.

“You don’t need to do everything,” Coach tells her. “This is why we have a good GM. I want your line scoring. Obviously, I don’t want you being scored  _ on _ , but you’re not a defensive line.”

“I can do it.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But you don’t need to.”

It takes her some time to process this. Being told no has always been synonymous with a challenge for her. It maybe has made her less receptive to advice than she should be. 

The next time she sits across from Coach in his office she says, “How do I be better?”

He smiles as if she still doesn’t understand. “The time for getting better is over until the summer. Now, you show how good you are.”

Syd sits back in her chair, considering. Then she grins. “I can do that.”

#

As the top seed in the League, they’re up against HC Neftekhimik Nizhnekamsk in the first round. There are sixteen teams in the RSL and eight of them make the playoffs. Magnitogorsk, as the second-seeded team is in the second bracket. It means they won’t face each other unless it’s in the finals. She doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

_ It’s just how it is _ , Basha voice echoes in her head. It’s what Basha told her, tsking when she saw Syd pouring over standings and brackets and possibilities. She thinks the woman sees too much or maybe Syd’s forgotten how to hide when people truly look. But she doesn’t do anything but lightly scold Sydney and put a plate of hot food in front of her. 

The next time Syd shows up, it’s with an entire scouting report on Nizhnekamsk. Dmitry sits next to her, and she explains to him in smooth flowing Russian, the strengths of each player and how to counter them. Then she smiles, sharp, and details their weaknesses and the best way to exploit them.

In the Russian Superleague, playoffs are best of five games. It means there’s the room to stumble, but only once. If they want to win they have to bring everything to every game.

Syd dresses for the game with Volkov at her side, the same she did for every single one of their 57 games this season. It’s familiar, it’s routine, and as she checks the tape on her stick one last time, she breathes easily.

This is hockey.

She knows how to do this.

Nizhnekamsk scores on the opening shift. Alekno wins the faceoff but they lose possession and before anyone can blink, the puck is in the back of their own net.

Coach yells from the bench.

The crowd around them is stunned.

Syd takes her line over the boards.

_ Play hockey _ , she tells herself. 

She wins the faceoff and Volkov battles to keep possession. He slides the puck to Sasha who flicks it up to Syd to carry into the zone. She dances around a forward, slips around a defenseman, and the goalie moves out to challenge her. She skates around his net, puck cradled on her stick. 

She passes up to Grankin then plants herself in front of the goalie. 

They don’t score on their first shift. When they return to the bench, Syd pulls her linemates down next to her.

“Hockey,” she says. “It’s just playing hockey. We just did it for one shift. Now we do it for the next.”

#

Khtey forces a turnover that leads to their best chance of the night so far. Syd nudges Sasha. “Tell him he did well.”

“You tell him,” Sasha says.

“He won’t believe it from me.”

Sasha shrugs, conceding the point. He makes a point to skate by Khtey on their change. They exchange a few words and Khtey glances as Syd before he reaches the bench.

“We all need to be working together,” Sasha says before she can scold him.

And, well, she can’t argue with that.


	15. Chapter 15

It only takes them three games to put Nizhnekamsk away. Two in Moscow and one in Nizhnekamsk. It takes Zhenya and his team four games but they beat Yaroslavl. 

They face Kazan in the second round. They’re more of a challenge. They’re faster, causing problems on the backcheck, smothering breakaways, and their goalie is almost too good to beat at even strength. 

Syd and Sasha work their magic, weaving in and out of players, spinning plays that leave the other team confused as they whip the puck around the ice. On good nights, they put the puck in the back of the net. On the bad ones, they hit crossbar and post or the knob of the goalie’s stick.

There are more good nights than bad, and they win the series.

It takes five games.

Zhenya loses in five to Togliatti.

It means they don’t have to face him in the finals.

She doesn’t feel guilty for her relief, because she had no control over whether his team won or lost.

She eats at Basha’s restaurant and Dmitry keeps her from faceplanting in her food. After the first time she’s noticed and Basha smuggles her out the back, she doesn’t leave the dorms unless it’s in a team bus.

It’s different than last year and Shattuck’s postseason run.

They don’t cram into one hotel room, bodies overlapping as they draw comfort from the people who have been there before and belief from those who are new and have never lost. They don’t band together with the knowledge that there’s something special about this team. In all likelihood, this will be the team next year or something very close to it. 

They’re all professional athletes, they want to win, but they’re missing some of the desperation that Sydney and her teammates felt last year. 

Togliatti kicks them up and down the ice in their first game. They shut them out too, erasing the space 5-on-5 and effectively shutting down the power play.

Syd’s team brings the same strategy to game two and, unsurprisingly, lose again.

The team is quiet on the trip home to Moscow, the possibility of a three-game sweep in the finals weighing heavy. Syd scours game tape, watching and re-watching, batting away Volkov’s hands when he tries to stop her. 

It isn’t a long flight and when they land, she walks up to Coach who shakes his head. “Not tonight, Crosby.”

So she takes her gametape back to her dorm room and closes her door and continues to study.

The next morning, she shows up in Coach’s office.

He groans but waves her in.

“They’ve done their homework,” she says. She shows him the clips she’s spliced together. “They know they can’t stop Sasha once he has the puck so they keep it from him. Look at their positioning. They control who I pass to then shut down the shot.”

“They’re good,” Coach agrees.

“Because they’ve practiced. We should give them something they haven’t had time to prepare for.” She pulls a chair next to him and sits down. “We’ve stacked our first power play unit and that’s not working. We should switch it up.”

Coach looks at her, not encouraging exactly but he doesn’t immediately shut her down either.

“Put me on the second unit,” she says. “As long as Sasha can get the puck, he can score. Mikhailov is crafty. Between them and Alekno, Sasha will get the puck again. Khtey’s a strong net front presence. If I’m on his unit then between me and Berezhko, we’ll get the puck on net, and he can deflect it in. It’s not our usual style, but it’s why it’ll work.”

“What about 5-on-5?”

Syd smiles and flips to her next compilation of video.

#

Coach announces some changes at practice, and a couple players glance at Syd, nervous, like they’re waiting for her to blow-up over being demoted to the second power play unit. Sasha puffs up on her behalf then deflates when he sees how she nods along to watch Coach is saying.

When she moves to stand next to Khtey, Volkov looks like he wants to intervene. 

“So,” Syd says, nudging Khtey. “Coach and I agree on something, I guess.”

“Yeah?” he asks, cautious.

“You make a good target.”

She grins, bright and teasing, and he looks shocked before he shoves her shoulder. But he’s laughing and then she’s laughing.

“What the fuck?” Volkov mutters.

They have a solid practice, the kind that settles their doubts about the new changes. Alekno still lingers on the ice to help her pick up pucks. 

“Worried about me?” Sydney asks as she tosses two in the bucket. “I asked for it.”

“Coach said that.”

“And you didn’t believe him?” She’s smiling again, teasing, but Alekno doesn’t smile back. “Khtey and I aren’t friends. I don’t we ever will be. But we’re teammates and that’s enough.”

“I’m glad you’re on our side,” Alekno says and it warms her through and through.

#

It’s a powerplay goal that puts them on the board for the first time this series.

Syd weaves through players, the puck stapled to her stick. She crosses and weaves until 14 is blocking his goalie’s vision and Khtey is right where she needs him to be. She whips the puck on net and Khtey’s stick pops it over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net. 

Syd throws her hands up the air even though it wasn’t her goal. She crashes Khtey so hard she knocks him into the glass. The fans cheer behind them.

#

It’s like a floodgate opens.

They score and score and score until they chase the starting goalie out of the net.

The game ends 7-1 and Syd knows better than to think they’ll steamroller Togliatti in the next two games like this, but they have the confidence they need to win. The goalie is beatable, the system is exploitable. If they can score then they can win. 

#

Game 5 takes place at home in Moscow. 

Brisson has called, not to wish her luck but to say, “I believe in you, kid,” and that’s even better. 

Her parents call too, her dad full of advice and her mom full of assurances. She needs them both. Taylor chats about school as if Sydney’s not about to play the most important game of her career thus far.

She needs that too.

#

She sits on the bench as Alekno takes the opening faceoff. 

The game begins with the clack of sticks on ice and the scrape of skate blades and a lost faceoff. 

Syd’s first shift comes on a scramble of a change. She throws a leg over the boards, pulls it back to avoid a careening puck then the player chasing it. Once Alekno is a stride away, she hits the ice and  _ goes _ .

#

The score is 0-0 late in the second period when they go on the powerplay.

Coach clasps Sasha’s shoulder and says, “Hope your legs are feeling young.”

Sasha looks confused until it’s time for the units to switch out and Coach shakes his head. Sasha shrugs and stays on the ice. Syd bumps his shoulder on the way to the faceoff dot.

“Just like usual?” he asks. 

She grins and wins the faceoff.

With Khtey planted in front of the net and Sasha circling his spot like a shark lying in wait for its prey, Togliatti is stretched thin. They keep their sticks on the ice and they challenge, and there’s no opportunity for Sasha or Khtey. 

But Syd’s still here and in their attempts to cover who they think are the biggest threats, they run out of manpower to cover her. Sokolov’s slap-pass rockets to her stick, and she doesn’t bother settling it, not wanting to waste the time. She shoots, a rare one-timer that slips through the defense and the goalie.

1-0.

She hugs Sokolov and pulls Sasha and Khtey into the celebration, because that goal doesn’t happen without them. She beams as they hug her back because it doesn’t happen without her either.

#

The rest of the game passes in flashes.

Panic when she thinks the puck has gone in their net but there’s no light and no groan from the crowd and-oh, it hit the outside netting, thank fuck.

Fury when someone hacks at her ankles and it’s allowed to happen without a call.

Pain when she blocks a shot, shoulder stinging as if she was hit with the frustration of every single Togliatti player instead of a rubber disc. 

She shakes her head when Coach asks if she needs to sit out. 

She’ll have an impressive bruise later and the muscles will stiffen, making it hard to move. But for now she plays through the pain, rotates her shoulder whenever she can to keep the blood flowing so she’ll have her full range of motion when she needs it.

The pain fades as the clock winds down.

Togliatti scrambles, desperate for a goal. 

Syd’s team blocks them at every opportunity. 

Syd holds her breath when she’s on the bench then fights for breath when she’s on the ice. She plays and plays and plays and then the buzzer sounds.

She freezes, instinct, as it echoes through the stadium. It’s the crowd who reacts first, a roaring cheer that jolts Syd enough to turn to Volkov, the person who happens to be next to her on the bench. She throws her arms around him and screams, “We did it!”

The pour over the bench and she helps Sokolov support Grankin who’s hobbling after blocking two shots with the same ankle on the same shift. They skate into the waiting arms of their teammates, and Syd forgets anything except smiles and cheers and a few tears. 

They salute the fans then Alekno’s presented with the The Cup of Russia. It isn’t the Cup she grew up dreaming of, but when it’s passed to her, and she lifts it over her head, she still feels like she’s done something amazing. 

#

There’s drinking.

A lot of drinking.

She’s pretty sure that at some point someone switches her champagne for sparkling cider, but she doesn’t care. It’s sweet and there are bubbles, and she’s so drunk on the win, there’s nothing that can bring her back down.

The team wakes up in the rec room the next morning, a pile of hungover bodies, their skin sticky with dried drinks and their shirts stinking of vodka and beer and champagne. 

Syd rolls onto her side and her shoulder twinges but she doesn’t care.

She’s a Champion. 

She survived her first year as a professional hockey player. 

She  _ excelled _ .

“Go back to sleep, Gretzka,” Sokolov murmurs. 

She doesn’t sleep but she stops moving.

#

Her family didn’t come out for the playoffs. Taylor has school and her parents have work. She calls them once she’s downed a few Gatorades. They congratulate her and promise to celebrate when she comes home.

After she hangs up, Sasha drags her to celebrate with  _ his  _ family. 

Volkov throws his kids at her and Sokolov introduces her to his girlfriend and Berezhko doesn’t even need to translate when she meets his parents. 

A couple days pass in a haze of people and partying and winning and when it settles, the season is over. 

The meaning doesn’t really hit her until Sasha swings by her room. The door is open, and she’s packed, but there’s so much she’s leaving behind for next year that it doesn’t feel like she’s  _ leaving  _ leaving. 

“My flight is tomorrow,” Syd says. A summer of training then back for next season. This dance is almost familiar at this point. 

“Zhenya and I were invited to Worlds,” Sasha says.

Sydney looks up from her bag, surprised, even though she shouldn’t be. The RSL season is shorter than the NHL season. Partly because there are less teams and partly because it means their best players are available for international competitions. 

Syd never thought Canada would invite her to Worlds. The IIHF still hasn’t made an official declaration on whether she can play in their tournaments. The Olympics, if she’s invited, she’ll play for the women. But World Juniors and Worlds, they haven’t said. Maybe they were hoping it would never be an issue.

Truthfully, even if she was eligible, she doesn’t think she’d be invited. Canada is so good and so deep that they don’t need to take 16 year olds to the World Championships. 

But Sasha and Zhenya are going, and she knows they aren’t leaving her behind, but it feels like it anyway. And then she realizes that they  _ are  _ leaving her behind because after Worlds it’s the draft and this is their year. 

Her stomach plummets so sharply and quickly that she’s afraid she’ll throw up. 

Dynamo Moscow will be here for her next season with a roster spot and the beginnings of a career, but Sasha and Zhenya won’t be. They’ll be in the NHL, living the dream she’s always wanted. 

“You’re leaving,” she says.

Sasha, aiming for teasing, says, “You’re leaving first. Your flight is tomorrow.”

“But I’m coming back,” she says. She turns to her bag and wishes she hadn’t already packed so she’d have an excuse not to look at Sasha. 

“Gretzka,” he says.

She doesn’t know what else he might say, because Sokolov pokes his head in her door. “You’re leaving tomorrow?” he asks. “And you didn’t tell anyone? What’d we tell you about sneaking out?”

“What?” Sydney asks. 

“If you’re not hungover on the plane tomorrow then we haven’t done our job right.”

#

Sydney  _ is  _ hungover, and she stops at Basha’s for a greasy breakfast that isn’t on her diet plan but makes Basha hum with approval. Besides, Sydney has a few weeks before she has to militantly follow her diet plan for the upcoming season. 

Basha hugs her twice and kisses her cheeks. Syd gives her a framed picture of the team after their win. She signed the corner and Basha beams as she accepts it and slips a bag of pastries into Syd’s hands for the plane. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the end of the story this week which is why there's now a total chapter count! I think originally I was going to up posting days once I finished, but I really like this Saturday thing so instead (after this chapter) I broke them up into longer chapters. I'm so excited for you all to see where Syd's journey will take her.
> 
> But first, it's time for Sasha and Zhenya's draft.

Syd stays in Cole Harbor long enough to get over her jet lag and accept her parents’ congratulations and go to Taylor’s school presentation and spring concert. 

Then she goes to Shattuck to see Elizabeth.

“We’re all so fucking proud of you,” Elizabeth says when she picks Syd up from the airport. She’s the one with the minivan this year. Next year she’ll leave Shattuck behind for the University of Virginia. A full-ride, she told Sydney excitedly when she was accepted. Minnesota to Virginia then who knows where next. 

They hug, clinging to each other in the middle of baggage claim. 

Syd left home in Moscow for home in Canada and now she’s back home in Minnesota. They talk the whole ride to school about what’s changed and what’s different, and Sydney meets Elizabeth’s new roommate.

“You’re Sydney?” Caroline asks, assessing. “Did you really get kicked off the baseball team for starting a brawl?”

Sydney laughs and tells Caroline about the game and notices the way Caroline glances at Elizabeth every time Jack’s name is mentioned. When the story is over, Caroline grins and tells her about the fight Elizabeth started at a party a couple months ago. Then she invites Sydney out with them tonight.

“No pressure,” Elizabeth says. 

“I spent the year in Russia,” Sydney says. “I know how to drink.”

Elizabeth laughs and Caroline whoops and what feels like the entire soccer team pours into the room when it’s time to get ready. Mercedes, who Syd remembers from last year, dredges up the Booty Playlist and cackles as she hits play.

Syd laughs and abandons fussing with her hair to dance with Mercedes in the middle of the crowded room. 

#

She stops by Coach Ward’s office to present him with a framed, and signed, picture of her lifting the Cup of Russia. 

“Thank you,” she tells him as he hands it over. 

He smiles, proud, as he looks at it. “I wish I could’ve seen it in person.”

“I’m working towards playing closer to home.”

As much as she loves Russia, her roots are here. If she played for the Canadiens or Pittsburgh or even Tampa Bay then she knows people would’ve flown down to watch. Her parents and old coaches and former teammates and friends. She’d have to book suites to hold them all. 

_ I’ve proven myself a competitor and a winner. The NHL will let me play. _

Part of her wonders what kind of player she’ll be without Sasha. 

The rest of her scoffs.

She made it to Russia, proved herself good enough for the team without him. She’ll play well even without him on her wing. She’ll adapt, the way she always does. And then she’ll play against him when she steps onto NHL ice. 

“You’re a good kid,” Coach Ward tells her. “Not like Johnson. Can you believe he’s only sent me one email this whole year?”

Syd laughs and fills him in on what Jack’s been up to with the USNTDP. 

#

She visits Mr. and Mrs. Johnson before she goes back to Nova Scotia. Jack’s away so she chats with his parents and takes pictures of herself with an entire plate of cookies and sends it to her friend.

He sends a bunch of scowly faces back and she laughs and helps Mrs. Johnson with the dishes.

#

When she returns home, her parents have work and Taylor has school. They have a whole life that they’ve created without her. Before this year, of course, she’s been away from home for hockey for years now. But this is the first time it really hits her.

She’s a professional hockey player. She spent a year living in Russia, and she has more money than she entirely knows what to do with, and she has a contract that will take her through next year, and she’s still sixteen.

She feels young and old at the same time. An imposter in her childhood bedroom. 

#

She’s not sure how to feel when Sasha and Zhenya show up in her driveway. 

They’re not wearing their bronze medals, but there’s a weight on Zhenya’s shoulders as if he is. Sasha’s the one who waves to Mrs. Finley, the woman who dropped them off before turning his attention to Sydney.

“Your neighbors should be more protective of you,” he says. 

“Why?” Sydney asks, Russian rusty even though it hasn’t been long since she left. “Should I be afraid of you?”

“Sasha is stupid,” Zhenya says and Sasha, of course, squawks his protest. “But so are you.”

“Come on,” Sydney says. “Let’s go for a walk.”

She leaves a note for her parents then leads her boys down the street to the park where she played frisbee and soccer in the summer and hockey in the winter. There are a couple kids on the grass right now, kicking around a neon yellow soccer ball.

“Won’t lose that,” Sydney says. 

“Won’t lose us either,” Zhenya says.

It’s blunt enough to catch her off-guard like a hit that knocks her into the boards and steals the breath out of her. She stares at Zhenya then at Sasha. 

“Idiot,” Sasha says flicking Zhenya’s ear. He flicks Syd’s too for good measure. “Your draft is in a year. We’re staying in Russia until you come to the NHL with us.”

“No,” Sydney says. It’s exactly what she wants. She wants to hold their hands, wants to kiss them, say thank you. But that’s  _ selfish _ so she says, “No,” again and shakes her head when they both try to protest. “The NHL is your dream. I won’t hold you back.”

“It’s another year,” Sasha says. “Did you know that most Russians don’t come over right away? North America is far and foreign and new. We’re raised by our teams. It’s not easy to leave them.”

“It’s not uncommon for players to stay until they’ve won the Cup,” Zhenya says. “I haven’t done that yet.”

They’ve talked about this, she realizes. When they were at Worlds? After she got on a plane did Sasha call Zhenya? They talked about this and came to her with a united front and -

“But it’s the NHL,” she says. She can’t imagine saying no to the NHL. Especially - everyone knows they’ll go 1-2 even if they’re not sure who will be the one and who will be the two. And they’ll turn that down for  _ her _ ?

“It will wait,” Zhenya says. 

“Why would I play there when I can play with you?” Sasha asks. “You know North Americans. Too selfish to pass to me. I just got you trained.”

Syd laughs even as tears sting her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“This is our choice,” Sasha says.

Sydney doesn’t miss the way Zhenya’s eyes cut to the ground.

#

Sydney feels no shame in volunteering Sasha to help her mother with dinner. She takes Zhenya outside to help burn off some of Taylor’s energy, seemingly endless after an entire day cooped up at school. 

Syd throws a wiffle ball for her to swing a plastic yellow bat at. It’s thinner than the orange one the game originally came with. The orange one was fat, designed to help kids connect with the ball. Since Syd’s been in Russia, Taylor’s gotten good enough that she doesn’t need as much surface area in order to connect. 

“So,” Sydney says as she jumps to catch the flyball. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She sees how Zhenya draws his shoulder up as if that’s any kind of defense and then how he blows out a breath and all his fight with it. “The team talked to me before coming out here. We went far in the playoffs then I won bronze with Russia. They want me to stay.”

“Next year?” Syd asks.

Zhenya shakes his head. “Forever.”

“Oh.”

Syd pitches to Taylor again. 

“When we met, you asked what it was like to know that I always have a place.” Zhenya is far away as he looks out into their neighbor’s yard. “Right now it feels like a trap.”

“Zhenya,” she says and it doesn’t feel like enough.

“They came to my house,” he says. “Looked at the cars in driveway, looked at the new floor. They reminded me that my family has nice things because of the team.”

“No,” Sydney says. “Because of  _ you _ .”

“But I needed them,” Zhenya says. “They have given me so much. I’m staying next year. It’s easier not to fight them. And why fight if you’re still there?”

“Zhenya,” she says again, voice breaking on his name.

Taylor worms between them, wiffle ball held up. “Again?” she asks. 

“Of course,” Sydney says. “Sorry.”

But then Taylor looks at Zhenya, at the tears in his eyes and the droop of his shoulders and she drops the ball and hugs him around the middle. 

“Is Zhenya sad?” she asks Sydney.

“He is,” Sydney answers.

Taylor doesn’t ask why. She just hugs him with the belief that hugs make everything better. 

#

After dinner, Trina shows the boys the guest room with each bed neatly made up. When Sydney lingers in the room, Trina raises her eyebrows.

“We’re going to watch a movie,” Syd says.

Trina glances at Zhenya whose eyes keep slipping closed to Sasha who’s leaning heavily against the wall. “They’re about to fall asleep.” But then she shrugs and says, “Door stays open.”

Sydney contemplates banging her head against the wall. 

#

In the morning, Syd takes Sasha and Zhenya for a run around her neighborhood. Running isn’t her favorite but it isn’t so bad with Sasha on one side and Zhenya on the other, both listening as she points out driveways she played hockey in and houses of teammates. 

They take a break mid-way through when Syd leads them into a Tim Horton’s for coffee and donuts.

“We’re walking home,” Sasha says as he happily pops another timbit into his mouth. 

When she opens her mouth to protest, he pops a timbit in  _ her  _ mouth. She tries to glare but it doesn’t really work. She ends up laughing instead and Zhenya laughs too until the three of them are making too much noise for this early in the morning in a donut chain in Nova Scotia. 

#

They do walk back, and they’re passing the MacGregors when Zhenya asks, “Will you come to the draft?”

“What?” Syd asks. She looks at Sasha, waiting for him to laugh like this is another joke, but he just meets her gaze, steady and serious. 

“Our agents will be there,” Zhenya says, “but it’s a lot of people and a lot of English.”

“Okay,” she says, because they’ve been at her side in Russia, and she can he here for them when they need it. 

“That was easy,” Sasha says, surprised. “I didn’t even have to bring out the big guns.”

Sydney raises her eyebrows.

“Zhenya and I are rooming together,” Sasha says. “A whole hotel room to ourselves. And you, of course.”

“I’m going to Raleigh for a booty call?” she asks. 

Sasha makes a show of checking out Zhenya’s ass. “Worth it.”

She laughs all the way back to the house.

#

She flies with Sasha and Zhenya to Raleigh. She slips away in the airport, because she promised to be here for  _ them  _ not the NHL and she doesn’t want to deal with cameras or reporters or questions. 

She sneaks into their room later; well, she knocks and they let her in, but it feels a little bit like sneaking. 

They all pile onto one of the beds. 

“NHL draft,” she says.

Sasha blinks up at the ceiling like he can’t quite believe it. 

Zhenya buries his face in her neck.

#

Staffy’s here so she takes advantage of cameras invading Sasha and Zhenya’s room to track him down. It isn’t that hard and when she knocks on his door and he opens it, confused, it only takes a second for his face to break into a smile.

“Croz?” he demands. He tries to lift her off her feet in a hug but she doesn’t budge. “Fucking hell.”

She laughs and ruffles his hair. “So, Mr. Hotshot. What’s it like being at the NHL draft?”

They catch up for a bit and his roommate comes back, another American. 

“I guess they think people from the same country all know each other?” Staffy asks.

“Or at least like each other,” Thelen adds. “Which is kind of bullshit. Don’t Malkin and Ovechkin hate each other? I heard that they put them together and whichever one comes out alive at the end of the weekend is the first pick.”

“ _ That’s  _ bullshit,” Staffy says but he turns to Syd for confirmation. “You played with Ovechkin, right?”

“Yeah, he’s a good player,” she answers. “Malkin too. I don’t know which one will go first.”

“Who would you pick?” 

She rolls her eyes but plays along. “I mean, if I was already on the team then I guess Sasha because I’m a center. But maybe Zhenya so we’d have a 1-2 punch.” She shrugs. “They’ll both make an impact on whichever team they’re drafted to. They’re the kind of players you can build a franchise around.”

“Wow,” Staffy says. 

Syd shrugs. “You wanted to know.”

“What did you call them?” Thelen asks.

“Russian nicknames,” Syd answers. “They’re my friends.”

“Your friends,” Thelen repeats, incredulous.

Staffy looks disbelieving as well.

Syd shrugs. 

#

She insists on staying in the hotel room for the draft itself. She pulls it up on the TV, and she’s sure it isn’t as cool as it would be sitting in the audience, but she doesn’t have the emotional fortitude for that. She knows at least one camera would catch her there then ten would then suddenly everyone would want to know why she’s here and if she’s preparing for her own draft when there’s still no guarantee she’ll have one.

So she curls up on the bed the three of them slept in that night and watches as the Washington Capitals select Alexander Ovechkin first overall at the 2004 NHL Entry Draft. Then, with her heart rising in her throat, and her brain still not quite quick enough to keep up, she watches as Evgeni Malkin is drafted to the Pittsburgh Penguins.

She’s knows Zhenya thought he was good enough to go first, knows he  _ was  _ good enough to go first, just as she knows Sasha was too and deserved it-if only they could  _ both _ be first. But Zhenya is second and it means the  _ Pittsburgh Penguins _ and his smile is goofy and genuine as he steps on stage.

He shakes hands with  _ Mario Lemieux _ and Syd is achingly, fiercely jealous in a way that makes her hate herself a little bit. She watches as Zhenya tugs the jersey over his head, a hint of tears in his eyes when his head pops through the hole. He’s been drafted to the NHL. To the team that may or may not be his favorite. It’s everything he wants.

And they both know he won’t have it next year.

Maybe not even the year after.

She watches as Zhenya straightens his shoulders and smiles brighter and goofier, hamming it up for the hundreds of cameras and she decides right then and there. Zhenya will have the NHL if she has to smuggle him out of Russia herself.

#

Zhenya calls her sometime after the top three picks have had their pictures taken and he’s been forced through at least one interview. He talks in Russian, quickly, as if he’s afraid someone’s going to catch him and scold him.

“Dinner,” he says.

“With the Penguins,” she guesses since Sasha’s already told her that the Capitals are taking him out. “I’ll order room service.”

“No, come with me,” he says. Then, “Please,” almost like an afterthought. 

“This is your day.” Another reason she’s chosen to stay up here. Today is about Sasha and Zhenya, two Russians claiming the top two spots in the draft. She doesn’t want to end up being the story of the weekend. 

“Your English is better than mine.”

A night playing translator. She owes him that after everything he’s done for her, but she’s sure he has professional translators here. People who won’t get caught staring at Lemieux in awe and glaring at the owners who haven’t pushed to allow her to play. 

“Because you don’t practice enough,” she says but they both know she’s going to tell him yes.

“Wear something nice.”

He’s teasing and it makes her shove her nerves down enough to tease back. “I have a Dynamo Moscow sweatshirt. Do you think that will impress them?”

Zhenya laughs which makes her smile, proud of herself then she has to hang up so she can get ready. She brought a couple nice outfits with her at her mom’s suggestion. She clearly didn’t believe Syd would stay holed up. And maybe Syd didn’t fight as much as she usually would because she couldn’t help but think that even with the draft going on, maybe the three of them would be able to escape somewhere nice.

So yeah, she has a suit and a nice blouse. But also, she has a dress. It isn’t super fancy, just a wrap dress made of a stretchy t-shirt material. Like promised, it wraps around her and she ties it securely around her waist. It’s comfortable but, looking at herself in the mirror, she’s undeniably a  _ girl _ .

And maybe she has a reason to show up to dinner with a NHL team in a dress and with her hair pulled back and even a dusting of make-up on her face. She dots the perfume Sasha gave her at her wrists. She isn’t some kind of knockout, she won’t be trying out for America’s Next Top Model or anything, but she’s pretty. 

Zhenya stares when she meets him in the lobby, jaw slack and everything. It’s flattering even if it isn’t subtle. She laughs and elbows him once she’s in range, because she might be dressed like a girl but she’s still a hockey player, and she’ll definitely tease him for this. 

And then there’s a surprised, “Sydney Crosby?” and she turns to see Mario Lemieux and Craig Patrick and Eddie Olczyk. There are some other faces, people in the organization that she doesn’t recognize. 

She smiles and says, “Hello.”

It’s perhaps an understated greeting, and it makes Lemieux laugh which in turn makes her blush. Someone, one of the men she doesn’t recognize says, “Is this against the rules?”

Zhenya nudges Sydney and she translates before adding, “I can leave. We can say I came to wish you luck. Or give you a new tie.” She looks pointedly at the one he’s wearing.

Zhenya scowls and pats it protectively. “It’s a good tie. And I want you here.”

So Syd shrugs and, in English now, says, “Did I miss something this past year when I was in Russia? Has the NHL made a ruling on women’s participation?”

“They haven’t,” Lemieux answers.

Syd’s smile turns sharp as if she’s in the faceoff dot. “Then I’m not here as a prospective NHL player. I’m here as a friend.” She pats Zhenya’s arm. 

Craig Patrick is the first to laugh and he holds his hand out for Sydney to shake. “Well, Miss Crosby, I think you’ll be a fine addition to our group.”

“Sydney is fine,” she tells him as she shakes his hand.

Zhenya nudges her.

“They like me better than you,” she says and then has to twist out of the way when he tries to poke her. 

They have reservations at a restaurant that doesn’t blink when a NHL legend walks through its doors. The hostess leads them back to a private booth. Syd raises her eyebrows when Zhenya herds her in first so she’s sitting between him and the wall, but she doesn’t say anything. Lemieux watches the exchange, interested, but only smiles when she catches him looking. 

“I’m most excited about Penguins,” Zhenya says in halting English. Under the table, Sydney squeezes his knee in encouragement.

Craig Patrick smiles, indulgent, as if he thinks Zhenya’s feeding him a line. 

Zhenya must see the same thing because he squares his shoulders and adopts the mulish expression that means he’s about to be stubborn. “Syd and I watch. When Sydney miss home, we watch Penguins.”

Sydney ducks her head and pokes Zhenya’s thigh because he can’t just say that in front of all these people. Except he did and  _ Mario Lemieux _ is smiling at her like he thinks it’s cute that she watches the Penguins when she’s homesick in Russia. At least this probably isn’t the first time a hockey player’s had a case of hero worship when face-to-face with him. 

“Better than  _ Habs _ ,” Zhenya says and he makes a face.

The table laughs, and Zhenya, pleased with his ability to make a joke in English, puffs up, proud. Sydney smiles at him, and they make small talk for the rest of the meal. 

When it’s over, there’s more handshaking and more smiles, but she can tell that Zhenya’s smile is strained. His eyes, which always look kind of sleepy, have especially dark circles under them right now. She knows what it’s like to flounder, surrounded by an unfamiliar language. She knows how  _ exhausting  _ it is. If she can help Zhenya then she will.

It’s why she sat by his side during dinner and why now, once goodbyes are finally all said, she lets him lean on her on the way back to the hotel. 

“It was good,” Zhenya says when they get off the elevator on their floor. “Nice.”

“You sound sad.”

He nods, acknowledging that she picked up on it as if he’s ever kept his feelings a secret. They’re written in broad strokes across his face and edged into the set of his shoulders and the curl of his fingers. He’s open and expressive, and she’s not so unobservant that she doesn’t notice. 

“They’re good people,” Zhenya says as they open the door. “I feel like I’m letting them down.”

“You can change your mind,” she says. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

If she’d been drafted to the Penguins then had dinner with Mario Lemieux then she doesn’t think she could walk away from that. 

“Velichkin won’t let me go. That hasn’t changed.”

“Velichkin?” Sasha asks. He’s already in his pajamas, sprawled across the bed Sydney watched the draft on. He frowns at he looks between them. “What’s going on?”

Zhenya sighs. He tugs at his tie to loosen it. “Magnitka doesn’t want me to leave. They say they’ve given so much to me, and I need to stay. They’re not wrong.”

Sasha sits up, a thundercloud forming on his face. “They can’t keep you.”

“They can once I sign a contract.” He holds up a hand as Sasha draws breath to argue. “We already agreed that we’re staying this season. I don’t want to talk about it again until then.”

“Okay,” Sydney says then shoots Sasha a look saying he better agree. 

Sasha lets it go, but she knows when this comes up again next year then he’ll be ready. She will be too. The RSL isn’t keeping Zhenya. 

“You have too many clothes on,” Syd tells Zhenya. Zhenya’s loosened his tie so she pulls it over his head and drapes it on one of the dresser handles. 

Zhenya raises his eyebrows. “You’re fully dressed.”

Syd grins and tugs on the sash that holds her dress together. She lets the fabric open up, lets the dress slip from her shoulders and to the ground. It leaves her in the lingerie set she bought last year and her flats. 

She smirks as both her boys stare. “Now I’m not.”

“Still  _ too  _ dressed,” Sasha says.

Sydney laughs and flips all the locks on their door. When she’s done, Zhenya’s still staring but his shirt is unbuttoned. 

She sprawls out on the second bed and kicks her flats off. “Who wants to kiss me first?”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some adult content in this chapter! A warning for those of you who read on the bus and other public areas :)

Discussions of where they should sign and play for the year become moot when the NHL and NHLPA can’t agree on whether they should be a salary cap league and the beginning of the season is put on hold. 

Sydney’s already back in Moscow, and the team adds a few players, guys who don’t want to sit around and wait on the NHL. They want to  _ play _ so they come back to Russia. Syd can’t blame then when she basically did the same thing.

Plus,  _ Pavel Datsyuk, _ is now on her team and yeah, she’s bumped down to third line center, but it’s only temporary and definitely worth it for everything she can learn from him.

Andrei Markov joins them as well, a solid defenseman who approaches her at their first practice and says, “Hello, my name is Andrei Markov,” in English.

She responds in Russian. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sydney Crosby. Do you want to practice power play entries?”

He looks surprised, maybe at her grasp of the language which gives Sasha enough time to skate by and whisper, “Just say no.”

Some of the guys from last year overhear and laugh. Syd has no problem smiling sweetly at Sokolov and saying, “Oh, you want to practice too? You certainly need it. What did you do all summer?”

“Have sex with beautiful women.”

Syd laughs and shakes her head. She’s not touching  _ that. _

“What about you, Gretzka?” Volkov asks. “Your Russian is better.”

She smiles, too innocent to be trusted. “Zhenya is a much better teacher than Sasha.”

“Hey!” Sasha catches her in a headlock and they tussle until someone clears their throat.

Alekno’s in front of them now, arms crossed and trying to look stern. “This is going to be a long season.”

“57 games!” Sasha tells him.

Alekno rubs his temples as if he already has a headache. Syd and Sasha abandon their wrestling so they can high five. 

#

Syd practices faceoffs against Pavel Datsyuk. 

She loses most of them.

#

“Sergei Gonchar is playing with us,” Zhenya says. It’s a rare phone call between only the two of them. Sasha’s engaging in a stupid prank on Alekno. She’s pretty sure Datsyuk is involved somehow. She got out of it by pretending she didn’t understand their invitation, but that excuse won’t last long. She  _ has  _ gotten better at Russian and she has too much pride to let people think she’s worse than she is.

“Defenseman, right?” Syd asks.

“He plays for the Pens. We talked a little about them.”

She can hear the longing in his voice.

_ Next year,  _ she promises herself.

#

Zhenya isn’t the only who who calls. Brisson does too.

“Hey kid,” he greets.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Either the English or the warmth in her tone makes several of her teammates turn to look at her. She sticks her tongue out at Sasha and slips away from her teammates.

“Everything okay?” she asks. Russia’s an international call so they don’t chat like they did when she was at Shattuck. They only talk business and with the NHL locked out, she can't imagine there’s much going on.

“The NHL wants a salary cap and the players don’t,” Pat tells her. “Well, that’s the hot button issue. There are some other things to discuss.”

“Me?” she guesses.

“You.”

“I should probably be glad they’re finally talking about it.” Mostly, though, she’s angry. Time is running out before her draft and they’re just now realizing they need to figure out whether or not she can play?

“I don’t need to tell you that with the lockout, there’s more attention being paid to other leagues,” Pat says.

“People are watching so put on a show?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think -”  she catches herself before she asks the question. The NHL will admit her or they won’t. Speculation won’t get her anywhere. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

“Kid?” Brisson asks.

She shakes herself. “Sorry. I know, the harder you fight for something, the more it’s worth. I just - they should want me. I know it’s cocky to say but it’s  _ true _ .”

“I know,” Brisson tells her.

They only talk for a little longer before she rejoins her teammates in the lounge.

“Family?” Sasha asks, making space for her next to him. 

“Pat.”

He nods as she tucks herself against his side. 

“Pat?” Alekno asks, suspicious.

“Did you get a boyfriend this summer, Gretzka?” Sokolov asks.

Syd rolls her eyes. “Pat Brisson is my agent.”

“Oh.”

The guys look a mix of disappointed and relieved. 

“Why would she want a  _ Canadian  _ boyfriend?” Volkov asks. “Russian men are best.”

“No men for you,” Alekno tells her, missing the way Volkov grins behind his back. “You’re still a teenager. Only boys.”

Syd matches Volkov’s grin. “Dad’s letting me date? Sasha, we need to go shopping.”

The team laughs uproariously at their captain’s expense.

“Don’t call me that,” Alekno says.

_ Then don’t tell me what to do off the ice _ , her look says. She tucks herself closer to Sasha, but no one cares, too busy heckling Alekno.

#

Syd’s moved to the second power play unit which is better than being bumped to the PK like Khtey, but it’s still a tough adjustment. She lost the second line then her place on the top power play unit. She understands  _ why _ and she knows it’s deserved, but it doesn’t stop her from being frustrated.

Pavel Datsyuk’s come home and she knows she isn’t better than him.

Yet.

It’s the reminder she needs that while she has a Cup of Russia under her belt, she only has one professional season. There’s so much improvement left in her game and while it stings to know that her minutes will be cut back this season, she can't let it make her bitter. 

No one’s warned Datsyuk about her so when she catches him at the end of practice and asks, “Do you have ten minutes?” he says yes without hesitation.

Sasha sticks around too. “Do you need someone to drop the puck?”

“Thank you,” she says.

He grins, eyes sparkling with trouble. “It’s for Pavs, not you. He doesn’t know that ten minutes is Canadian for an hour.”

Syd flips him off and Datsyuk laughs, loud enough to fill the air around him.

It takes five faceoffs for Syd to say, “You’re cheating,” an accusation except for the awe in her voice.

He grins. “It’s not cheating if you don’t get caught.”

“Show me?” she asks and his grin grows.

They stay out there for thirty minutes and Datsyuk promises her faceoff practice twice a week. She beams, smile stretched wide enough that she’ll feel silly later but right now she’s just happy. She didn’t have the same hockey idols as Sasha and Zhenya, but she does have eyes.

Datsyuk is  _ good _ and he’s taking the time to help her, and she’ll still be annoyed at the loss of ice time, but hopefully this will help her play big minutes in the NHL.

That’s the goal, she reminds herself as she showers in her curtained-off stall. She wants the NHL. The RSL is a stepping stone on her way. It might be harder to put up the points and the plays that will get her noticed with less ice time and less talent on her wings but she can take it as a challenge. 

#

Coach’s decision to make Sasha a power play specialist carries over into this year. He starts the season playing the full advantage which means Syd’s demotion isn’t completely unbearable. She still has Sasha, and they still put the puck in the back of the net.

When they don’t, it’s usually because the first unit scores and that’s a good thing. Winning hockey games is always good. 

#

They fly to Magnitogorsk, and she’s surprised when Sergei Gonchar is outside their locker room after morning skate.

“Can I steal two of your players for lunch?” Gonchar asks Alekno.

Alekno glances at Syd and Sasha.

“Yes, those two,” Gonchar says, amused.

“Sure,” Alekno answers. Then, to Syd and Sasha. “Be back in time for your naps.”

“Aw,” Syd says because everyone’s  _ staring _ and it makes her itch to stir up trouble. “I wanted to nap with Zhenya.”

“Not funny,” Alekno tells her as the rest of the team sputters behind him.

Syd smiles, angelic. “Must be a translation issue, because  _ I _ think I’m funny.”

“Please, take them away,” Alekno tells Gonchar.

“Shower first,” Gonchar says. “And hurry. My wife is making lunch.”

Several players perk up at that.

“Can I come?” Volkov asks.

“No.”

More laughter. Syd slips into the locker room and showers in record time. She can take a longer shower after the game. She doesn’t want to lose any time with Zhenya.

#

The Gonchars live in a nice house on a quiet road. There’s a hockey net in the driveway, but it’s tipped on its side and covered in a black blanket.

“That’s the dragon cave,” Gonchar explains.

Syd nods as if that’s a normal thing to have in someone’s yard. 

She takes her shoes off inside then Zhenya’s there. She pulls him into a hug. He looks over her shoulder, probably at Sasha, but Gonchar is watching so Sasha and Zhenya don’t hug.

They move into the kitchen where Ksenia is bustling around. 

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” Sydney says.

Ksenia smiles, indulgent, and pulls Syd in for a hug. “You are very welcome. How do you like Russia?”

It’s an easy conversation, one Syd’s had a dozen times before. It carries them through lunch prep. She doesn’t know where the boys go but when they come back, they have a sleepy little girl with them. Her cheeks are pink, warm from her nap, and her little fist is curled into Zhenya’s shirt.

Syd stares, maybe too long. She knows that Volkov and Alkeno and some of her other teammates have families, but they don’t play in America. Does Gonchar have to leave his family behind when he plays in Pittsburgh? Do they have to move back and forth every year?

“Want to say hi?” Zhenya asks, his voice pitched low. “This is Natalie.”

“Hi Natalie,” Syd whispers.

Natalie blinks then burrows her face into Zhenya’s neck. 

“After lunch, once she’s woken up a little, you can play with her,” Gonchar says. 

“Oh,” Sydney says. She’s not sure if she should refuse or say thank you. She ends up staring, both at Gonchar’s daughter and how small she looks cradled in Zhenya’s careful hands. 

Lunch is good, and filling, and Ksenia loads their plates up a second time then a third with a smile and no judgement. Somehow, Sasha and Zhenya end up helping her with the clean-up which means Syd and Gonchar are on kid-duty.

They stand outside, the backyard littered with toys. Natalie’s favorite is a little push-mower. Her steps are unsteady, and sometimes she leans too much on the toy and falls on her face, but she always picks herself back up and tries again.

“She’s spoiled,” Gonchar says. “Our Pittsburgh house is worse.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“No. But a small part of me will always think it’s wasteful.” He laughs, softly, as he surveys his yard. “But there’s no way I’m lugging this across Europe and the Atlantic every year.”

“It’s nice that your family travels with you.”

“It’s still hard. My family is more than my wife and my daughter. But it does help to come home to them. And Ksenia knows my favorite foods when America gets to be too much.”

She thinks about saying  _ Zhenya buys me Reese’s when I miss home _ but it’s too revealing so she says, “It’s nice,” again.

Gonchar looks over at her. “Still nice to play at home for a year.”

“Yeah,” she says, too much longing in her voice.

“When do you think they’ll decide?” 

She doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about. “I don’t know. I thought Bettman would’ve made the decision earlier. Does the lockout mean the owners are deciding instead?” She shrugs. Then, because this has been building for a long time she adds. “It shouldn't even be a decision. It should be like any other player. Am I good enough or not? Instead, it’s this  _ circus _ . It’s stressful and it’s  _ bullshit _ . At least I have Russia.”

“Russia isn’t your dream.”

“No. My father was drafted by the Canadiens and he never played a game for them, not good enough. Why shouldn’t I have that same chance?”

“Zhenya thinks you’ll be Penguins together.”

If she’s drafted.

If Zhenya’s allowed to leave.

“That would be nice.”

#

Gonchar blocks two of her shots in the first period then one in the second. He isn’t there in the third, though, and she puts the puck past Nabokov to put her team up 2-1.

On her very next shift, she goes coast-to-coast after Sasha’s shot is blocked. She catches up to Sykora on the backcheck and pokes the puck to the corner for Sokolov to gather up.

Sykora looks confused then, when he sees who shut down his breakaway, his mouth twists into a frown.

“Skate, skate,” she tells him.

“Your chirping game needs work,” Sasha says, swooping in before Sykora thinks about throwing a punch.

Three shifts later, after their 2-on-1 becomes a 2-on-2 because Sasha wasn’t quite fast enough, she bumps her shoulder into his.

“Skate, skate,” she tells him, solemn.

“Fuck. You.,” he enunciates, clearly and in English.

Markov moves towards them, anticipating a fight, but they both laugh at each other before turning their attention to the ice.

#

They win 2-1 which means Syd’s goal stands as the game-winner.

They don’t get to see Zhenya after the game, because Coach loads them on the plane so they can fly out. Syd will admit she’s cranky, because it’s a late trip, and she didn’t get to kiss Zhenya once  _ or  _ tell him goodbye.

Of course, given that his team lost and he hit the post  _ twice  _ in the last minute, he wouldn’t have been good company.

She stares out the window, stubbornly ignoring her teammates as they play cards or  _ loudly  _ talk about what they would’ve done if they’d stayed longer in Magnitogorsk. 

Sasha lets her stew for a couple minutes before he pokes her side. She glares at him but he just laughs and pulls a familiar orange bag out of his travel bag. She tries not to stare too obviously, but he laughs at her again and opens it.

“Zhenya says he’s sorry he couldn’t give it to you in person. Seryozha was hovering.”

She takes a Reese’s then, deciding she deserves it, takes a second. Sasha’s putting the bag away when she says, “You don’t want one?”

“They're yours.”

“You can have one.”

“Only one?” he teases. She smiles at him and decides to stop scowling out the window. She settles herself against his side instead.

“Ooh, candy,” Grankin says.

“Not for you,” Syd tells him. “I only share with Sasha.”

“I’m the most special,” Sasha agrees.

It’s a sign of  _ something _ that no one protests or puts up a fuss. Syd will probably have to examine what that something is later. For now, she savors her two pieces of chocolate and laughs when Rabinovich claims he would’ve had four different offers if they’d gone to the bar.

Rabinovich is new, young and cocky, and consistently overestimates women's interest in him.

“I don’t see why you’re whining,” Volkov tells him. “Your best offer travels with you.” He makes a jerk off motion and their whole section of the plane laughs. 

“What about you?” Rabinovich asks Syd.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Sokolov says. “Syd doesn’t -”

Syd arches her eyebrows. “Syd  _ does _ . We don’t talk about it.” Seeing that Alekno’s listening in with a pained expression, she grins. “I mean, my door can be closed if it’s just me.”

Sasha laughs so hard she loses her comfortable resting place, but she can’t complain.

#

When Volkov knocks on her hotel door for breakfast the next morning, Berezhko calls out, “Do you need a minute?”

There’s a small crowd outside her room like her teammates actually think that every time she closes a door she’s getting off.

“If I was I’d need more than a minute. You should treat yourself better.”

Berezhko opens his mouth to defend himself then says, “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“We’re talking about this  _ again _ ?” Sasha asks.

Syd shrugs. “I guess they have a one-track mind.”

“Don’t they know your track is hockey?”

“Wait,” Rabinovich says. “You think about  _ hockey _ while you…”

Syd rolls her eyes. “No.” Good hockey gets her hot but she doesn’t watch highlights like they’re porn.

“Are you sure?” Sasha asks. “I thought I saw my best goals on your computer.”

She shoves his shoulder and the conversation moves to last night’s game and their upcoming one.

#

Syd’s on her way to lunch at Basha’s when Datsyuk falls into step with her.

“Hi?” she asks.

“No need to look so scared,” he says. “You’re not eating at the dorm today?”

She shakes her head.

“Because you want different food or you don’t want company?”

Both but she says, “You can come if you want.”

“You’ve adapted well to the Russian game,” he says.

“I like the extra space. And I’ve never played a physical style.” She holds her ground when she’s challenged, but she doesn’t lay big hits. She’ll miss the international style when she plays in the NHL. “Do you like it better?”

“It’s familiar and it’s nice to be home, but the RSL was what I could have. The NHL was a dream. Now that I have it, it’s hard to let go.”

“Do you think you’ll play this season?”

Datsyuk shrugs. “I don’t try to understand them.”

She turns into Basha’s and Datsyuk brightens. “I love this place.”

“It’s good,” she agrees.

Basha must have some kind of radar or ESP or something, because the second they walk through the doors, she comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She lights up when she sees Syd and pulls her in for a hug and cheek kisses and a scolding for being away so long. She pinches Syd’s side as she pulls back and tsks. Then she notices Datsyuk.

To her credit, she doesn’t stare. She looks at Syd, amused, then ushers them towards a table in the back.

“No Dmitry today?” Basha says. “He’ll be sad.”

As soon as Basha’s left them for the kitchen, Datsyuk turns his full attention on her. “Dmitry?”

“Her nephew. She doesn’t like me eating alone.”

“Huh.” Datsyuk’s lips curl up into a smile. “It’s been a while. What should I order?”

“Oh,” Syd says. “Um.”

Datsyuk seems to notice the lack of menus and his smile grows. “Standing order?”

“Something like that.”

Basha brings them tea then leaves them alone to talk hockey. A discussion of their season so far carries them over until Basha comes out with more food than six people could eat let alone two.

“Basha,” Syd begins even though it’s a losing battle.

“You’re still growing,” she says, the same as she does every time. Her eyes narrow when Syd pulls out her food list, now on laminated cards and with pictures. “Put that away.”

“Basha,” Syd says again but she tucks it out of sight until Basha leaves.

“A cheat day won’t kill you,” Datsyuk says as Syd surreptitiously checks her list.

“This is a month’s worth of cheat days,” she says but puts her list back in her pocket. 

“Wait until dessert,” he says.

“No.”

Datsyuk just grins then, when Basha comes over, disappointed and with takeout boxes, he orders dessert.

Basha’s face lights up in a smile. “You should bring him instead of the ugly one,” she tells Sydney.

“Zhenya’s not ugly.”

Datsyuk’s eyebrows climb up towards his hairline. “Zhenya?”

Basha nods, clearly pleased with herself, and leaves for the kitchen.

“Chekov?” Datsyuk asks. Then “Romanov?” because they have two Evgenis on their team. She doesn’t call either of them Zhenya or invite them to lunch with her.

“Malkin,” she says.

Datsyuk stares at her for a long moment before he says, “His face is kinda,” then makes a so-so motion with his hand.

“Whatever,” Sydney says because she is  _ not  _ telling Pavel Datsyuk that she likes Zhenya’s face.

They eat their cake and Datsyuk insists that she put the leftovers in her mini-fridge. She puts up one protest because it’s polite then caves because Basha’s food is really good. Sasha will help her eat it next time they’re both awake with late night cravings.

#

When Zhenya and his team come to Moscow, the North American media comes too. They want to see the two rookies they were denied by the lockout and they want to see Datsyuk and some of them are here to see Sydney.

There are cameras everywhere she turns which she supposes is a good thing because if they watch her play and report back to the NHL then maybe they’ll stop dragging their heels. But the cameras also make it hard for her sneak off with Sasha and Zhenya.

Of course, her teammates don’t help either. 

Zhenya’s lingering by the ice when Syd’s team files on. She waves which makes Zhenya laugh. Sasha waves with both arms and Syd ducks to avoid an elbow to the face.

Datsyuk catches her eye and tips his hand back-and-forth.

She’s not quite brave enough to tell Pavel Datsyuk to fuck off so she settles on a scowl.

And then the asshole says, “So, are you and your ugly friend going to lunch?”

_ Zhenya _ , it turns out, isn’t too scared to tell Datsyuk to fuck off which Sokolov takes too seriously, and there's almost a scuffle right there by the visitor’s bench. 

“Go shower,” Syd says, hoping to diffuse this before the cameras catch it. “We’ll text you when we’re done.”

“We?” Datsyuk asks.

Sasha slings an arm over Syd’s shoulders. “Young people only. It means you’re not invited.”

“Sasha!” Syd says but she doesn’t extend an invitation to anyone on the team.

#

They don’t go to Basha’s because, as much as she loves it, it isn’t good for a game day meal. They eat at a sandwich place instead, tucked in a back corner for privacy.

“There are cameras  _ everywhere _ ,” Zhenya grumbles as he bites into his sandwich. “And they ask stupid questions.”

“If they wanted a rivalry then they shouldn’t have had a lockout,” Sasha agrees. “Of course, they couldn’t have one anyway. Rivals need to be on the same level, and I’m clearly the superior player.”

Zhenya kicks him under the table.

Sydney sighs. “Please tell me you didn’t say that.”

“Of course not. I said that you and Zhenya are both centers. They should compare you instead.”

“Ugh,” Sydney says.

Zhenya nudges her foot with his. “We’re here for a couple days. Once the game is over, we’ll be left alone.”

“By cameras.” She nudges him back.

“Hey,” Sasha says. “Are you playing footsie without me?”

Syd giggles and kicks at him, sandwich temporarily forgotten.

#

After lunch is over, and she’s back in the dorms, the enormity of today’s game hits her. She knows the cameras are here for Sasha and Zhenya, for Datsyuk and Gonchar and Nabokov, a glimpse of NHL players playing in the wrong place, but that doesn’t mean she can’t use them.

She’ll be trying to score on Nabokov. Today is like a tryout for the NHL.

She isn’t ready.

She  _ is _ .

She just needs to play a solid game, one that highlights the best parts of her game; faceoffs, play making, and backchecking. Maybe try to score a goal or two along the way.

In short, she needs to play the best game of her life.

It’s a good thing she doesn’t back down when the stakes are high.

#

It takes almost three minutes for her to have her first shift. By the time the change comes, she flings herself off the bench and into the play. She bangs her stick on the ice and Grankin slings her the puck. She spins around a defender, makes a no-look pass to Sasha then demands the puck back.

Gonchar jumps in the lane so Sasha passes to Volkov instead. Syd drifts behind the net, a shark lurking and waiting for her opportunity. She darts in for a loose puck and fights off an opposing forward long enough that she’s able to pass the puck safely up to the point.

When Grankin’s shot finally comes, Syd’s at the post to whack it in. Gonchar clears her out of the crase but not soon enough. The goal light flashes and she grins before opening her arms to her teammates.

#

When she takes a faceoff against Zhenya, she hesitates only a moment before she reminds herself that he’s been drafted. There’s a team waiting for him to be ready. She still has everything to prove.

She wins the faceoff.

It isn’t even close.

#

She fights in the corners for every loose puck and when she’s elbowed and tripped, she gives back as good as she gets.

Some extracurriculars leave her with a bloody nose and she skates right up to the trainer and says, “Fix me. I need to be out there.”

“So impatient,” he says but patches her up.

She scores on the next shift and stares Ivan down. He shakes his head but when she returns to the bench, he pats her helmet. “Guess that’s why you were in a rush.”

“Always,” she says.

#

She makes a defensive play that leads to Volkov’s goal. She didn’t touch the puck so her name won’t be on the scoresheet, but Volkov pulls her into the celebration with a slap on the back.

#

There’s four minutes left in the game when Sasha says, “I’m passing to you on the empty net.”

They’re up 5-2. She doubts Nabokov will be pulled. Besides, “Are you saying I can’t score an even-strength hat trick?”

Sasha’s surprise quickly shifts into a sharp smile. “I bet you can’t.”

“I bet I fucking can,” she says as she slings her leg over the boards.

#

She feels like she’s flying as time winds down, like she could play another twenty minutes. She weaves in and out of players, protecting the puck and passing it and eating away more time.

They’re approaching a win which is good, but she wants  _ more _ .

When Grankin blocks a shot, she seizes her opportunity. He drops, but she scoops up the puck and  _ goes _ .

Magnitogorsk’s players are tired and no one can keep up with her. She powers down the ice then drives on Nabokov. No fancy moves, just her and the goalie. She forces the puck into the net, and it isn’t the prettiest goal, but the light flashes on her first ever RSL hat trick.

She points down the ice towards Grankin and laughs as Sasha crashes into her.

“Skate, skate,” he says.

She laughs and holds him tight before opening their celebration to the rest of their line.

#

The game is 6-3 and the team is all smiles as they troop to the locker room. A big win over a good team with a couple days before their next game. It sets the mood for a rowdy post-game. 

“Club?” Berezhko asks.

Syd nods even though the question isn’t directed at her. She has too much energy to go back to the dorms. There’s no more hockey for her tonight, but she can dance. She slants a look at Sasha.

Volkov elbows her. “No.”

She tears her gaze away from Sasha’s sweaty shoulders. “Hmm?”

“No,” he repeats.

She thinks about playing dumb, but one look at Volkov’s face tells her he won’t buy it. She’s been too obvious then.

“I just want to dance,” she says. She retreats before he can answer.

#

Once they’re at the club, Syd in tight jeans and an even tighter t-shirt there are always two teammates between her and Sasha. It doesn’t take him long to pick up on it. When he does, he frowns and eyes Grankin like he’s deciding if he can make it past the defenseman. 

Syd gives him the tiniest shake of her head then glances at a girl lingering by the bar. She’s in a short skirt and tall boots. She’s willowy and blond, nothing like Syd so Syd tilts her head towards her. It’s Sasha’s turn to shake his head.

_ It’s okay _ , Syd tries to say with her expression.

“She’s hot,” Rabinovich says, spotting the girl at the bar. He looks at Syd, confused. “Are you…?”

“Helping Sasha,” she answers smoothly.

“She’s way out of your league,” Sokolov says.

Sasha knocks back his drink and stands. “I’m in the Russian Superleague. No one’s out of my league.”

There are hoots and hollers as he leaves them for the bar and the girl. It was Syd’s idea but her stomach’s knotted tight and her smile is strained as she watches him go. When Sasha leans against the bar, the girl turns to him with obvious interest. Syd takes another drink.

“My turn,” she says.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Volkov begins.

She gives him a smile, sweet but laced with arsenic. “Hat trick tonight. You think I can only score on the ice?”

“Have fun,” Pavs says.

Once he’s given his blessing, everyone else’s protests die. Maybe he’s learned already that half her fun is annoying her teammates, that she feeds off their protests and complaints. Or maybe he doesn’t believe in keeping his teammates from having a good time. Or, most likely, he thinks she’s with Zhenya and knows she isn’t going home with anyone tonight.

She dances until she’s burned off some of the leftover energy from the game. What she really wants is rough kisses and rougher touches, her boys on either side of her as they tell her how good she played tonight. But Zhenya’s at the hotel with his team and Sasha’s flirting with a girl at the bar so Syd stays on the dance floor until she’s exhausted.

When she stumbles back to the table, she automatically looks for Sasha. 

“He’s meeting us back at the dorms,” Volkov says.

“In the morning,” Rabinovich adds with a laugh.

Syd knows Sasha isn’t doing anything. It doesn’t stop the brief spike of hurt.  _ If it gets our team off our scent then it’s okay _ . She plasters a smile onto her face and drops, hard, onto Volkov’s lap.

“You get to help me home then,” she says.

“You’re not that drunk.”

She puts a hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon. She laughs when he shoves her off.

#

There’s a lot of catcalling at breakfast when Sasha saunters in, hair in complete disarray. Syd grins and pats the space next to her.

“Good night?” she asks.

Sasha’s answering grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She’s not sure anyone else notices. 

It’s more of the same in the locker room.

“It’s good for the two of you to spend some time apart,” Volkov says which means Syd must be scowling again.

“We’ll be apart plenty next year,” she tells him.

“Like you aren’t following him to the NHL.”

“Following?” Syd demands, voice low and angry, as if this hasn’t been her dream and ambition for years before she even knew the name Alexander Ovechkin. 

Volkov winces.

“The NHL isn’t an option for me,” she says. “Maybe I’ll still be in Russia next year.”

“You don’t believe that.”

She woke up this morning to all the North American coverage being on Sasha and Pavs. Her hat trick was a footnote. She had a statement game, and no one cared.

“I’m starting to,” she says then crosses the locker room to talk to Grankin about their zone exits.

#

After practice and lunch she emails everyone back home then takes a long nap. They have a day off tomorrow so there’s no team dinner or anything planned tonight. The settled guys want to hang out with their families or girlfriends which means minimal supervision for everyone at the dorms.

After dinner, Sasha drags Sydney upstairs. “We’re going clubbing. You, me, and Zhenya.”

“Yeah?” Some of her sour mood lifts.

“So look good,” he says.

She laughs and flips him off, but she does take her time getting ready. French braiding her hair reminds her of practice and games but the alternative is whacking them in the face with her ponytail all night. 

She surveys her closet. Last night she’d gone for minimal effort but tonight it’s the three of them. She wants to look nice. More than that, she wants to make them stare. She doesn’t get a lot of time with both of them, and she wants to make the most of it.

She pulls out a dress she bought with Elizabeth during the offseason. It’s short and tight, something she wouldn’t normally wear, too much of an invitation. Tonight, though, she pulls it out. Then she pins her hair up and showers so she can shave her legs.

Somehow, after shaving, her dress seems even shorter. She tugs at the hem and wonders if maybe this is too much. She has pants she can wear and it’s not like Sasha or Zhenya will care if she’s in a t-shirt and jeans. They only care if they’re there together.

She’s rummaging through her closet when there’s a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she says before she remembers the door’s locked. She flips the lock and opens the door.

It’s only Sasha, in ripped jeans and a tight t-shirt. He has a smile on his face, probably about to tease her about the door being closed, but his expression freezes when he sees her. Then his mouth falls open which is both hilarious and flattering.

“I shouldn’t change then?” 

Words still stuck, he shakes his head.

“Okay.” She tugs at the hem again.

“Coat,” he says. “Then we go.”

She has one long coat. She’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not that it’s longer than her dress. She decides on good when they run into Sokolov on their way out. He takes one look at the coat then her sneakers and just says, “Don’t stay out too late.”

“We won’t,” Syd promises.

Sasha hustles her out before anyone else can delay them.

“It’s early,” she tells him.

“We can’t be out late,” Sasha reminds her. “And Zhenya’s curfew is even earlier.”

It isn’t so early that nowhere will be open, but she is concerned about crowd size. They can’t exactly blend in or hide if they’re the only ones there. Sasha gives their cab driver a different address than she’s used to.

He smiles at her surprise. “We’re trying not to be recognized.”

And, well, that makes sense.

The cab drops them off outside a warehouse. She’s skeptical but trusts Sasha so follows him inside. As soon as they step through the door, she understands why he picked this place. It’s big and  _ dark _ . She can see people on the dance floor but not well enough to make out any kind of distinguishing features.

They’ll just be a couple people out for a good time.

She hands her coat over to possibly the least secure coat check she’s ever seen then grabs Sasha’s hand so she doesn’t lose him. 

“You’re late,” Zhenya says, approaching them with a drink in each hand.

“Syd was slow,” Sasha says.

“As if Zhenya’s ever on time,” Syd says.

Sasha plucks the drinks from Zhenya’s hands before he can drop them. 

“Syd?” Zhenya asks. He stares at her legs and she fidgets with her dress again. “You look very nice.”

Syd laughs. She looks a lot of things but nice isn’t one of them. She takes her drink from Sasha before he can drink them both. She chugs it, alcohol burning as it goes down.

“In a rush?” Sasha asks.

She looks out at the dance floor, dark enough that anything could happen. She nods. “I want to dance.”

“Didn’t dance enough last night?”

“I didn’t have the right partners.”

Sasha finishes his drink and they toss the plastic cups in the nearest trash can. She grabs both their hands but lets Sasha lead, weaving through the crowd until they’re far from the entrance.

It’s almost too dark to see, just the occasional flash of a green or blue light. Sasha presses closer between beats of the song until she’s sandwiched firmly between them.

She tips her head back, rests against Zhenya’s shoulder. Sasha presses his lips to her throat then, after she gasps loud enough to be heard over the music, he scrapes his teeth across her skin. She grinds back against Zhenya who holds her tight then holds her up as Sasha makes her knees shake.

When it gets to be too much, she grabs a fistful of Sasha’s hair and pulls his head up. He grins, a flash of teeth caught for a second by the lights before he kisses Zhenya. 

She can hear it, quiet groans and little growls. They try to press closer, their hands scrambling over each other then her as they take what they want. Sasha’s jeans rub against her recently shaved legs and Zhenya pushes her dress up even more. She’d complain but his palm his hot against her thigh, fingers splayed wide and reaching up. She slips her hands into the back pockets of Sasha’s jeans and squeezes his ass.

He breaks off from his kiss to pant as she rubs against him. He’s hard, and she slips her thigh between his and wonders if…

Sasha pulls away and says, “Switch,” sounding strangled but not unhappy. 

They dance with Zhenya in the middle, Sasha behind him, rucking up his shirt so Syd can press her hands to his sweaty skin. Zhenya kisses her, deep and slow until Sasha punches him. Zhenya yelps but obligingly turns his head to kiss Sasha. It lasts until they’re both frustrated by the angle and Zhenya turns to kiss him proper.

Here, in the dark, it feels as if it’s only the three of them, like they can do anything and get away with it. She snakes her hands between them and gets as far as popping the button on Zhenya’s jeans before Sasha stops her.

“You first,” he says.

They move again until they’re where they started, Syd in the middle with Zhenya at her back and Sasha at her front. And they must’ve talked about this, because as soon as Zhenya’s hand slips up her dress, Sasha kisses her, swallowing the noise she makes.

Zhenya cups his hand between her legs and she twists her hips, looking for more. She whines when he doesn’t give it to her then gasps as he laughs, a low sound in her ear.

“What do you want?” Zhenya asks as if he doesn’t already know.

She rolls her hips down but it doesn’t get her anywhere. She turns away from Sasha’s mouth to demand, “More.”

Zhenya laughs again, making her shudder. “Ask nicely, Syd.”

“Please.”

Zhenya’s thumb drags over her underwear but it still isn’t enough. Her legs tremble and she leans against him and says, “Please,” again, her voice breaking on the word.

He pushes her underwear aside and slides a finger inside her. She gasps, mouth falling open, and Sasha catches her bottom lip between his teeth. His kiss is all sharpness, winding her tighter as Zhenya slips a second finger in. 

“So easy,” Zhenya croons in her ear. “So wet. You like this, Syd? All these people here but they don’t know.”

“Fucking  _ hell _ ,” Sasha says and Syd can’t see but she can imagine the look Zhenya gives him, sharp, challenging, and incredibly smug.

“Sasha next?” Zhenya asks. “He likes attention. I wonder what we can do to him without anyone seeing.”

Sasha lunges forward, kissing Zhenya before he can run his mouth anymore. It’s good because Syd doesn’t want this to be over embarrassingly fast. But then Zhenya crooks his fingers and she thinks it’ll be over quickly regardless. She turns her face into Sasha’s neck so no one will hear her as Zhenya coaxes her closer and closer to the edge.

Zhenya pauses long enough to catch her attention. She barely says, “What?” before he drives his fingers back in. She goes up on her toes and her head falls back against his shoulder. He wraps a hand around her throat, loose but as if he can catch any sound that wants to escape. Her pulse beats desperate against his palm.

Sasha kisses her as she comes and she’s left trembling between them. Once she trusts her legs, and her voice, she says, “Sasha’s turn?”

#

They have dinner the three of them before Syd and Sasha’s team fly out for a mini-road trip. 

“I didn’t realize the three of you were so close,” Pavs tells her after pictures come out of the three of them dressed up and sitting around a small table.

“It’s a young people’s bond,” Syd answers.

“It’s an NHL bond,” he says, cutting through her humor and deflection. “Velichkin won’t like it.”

Syd had been prepared to brush off the jokes about third wheels or chaperones, but she wasn’t braced for this. She stares, obvious, and unable to help it.

“I’m not saying don’t be friends with him but -”

“Optics,” Syd spits. It’s something she was always aware of in North America, but for some reason she thought it didn’t matter in Russian. “Fuck.”

Pavs reaches for her but she twists away from the touch. She needs a counter-strategy.

#

The Magnitogorsk media accuses her of trying to seduce Zhenya to the NHL which is bullshit on about five different levels. It doesn’t stop her from being asked about it after morning skate.

“No,” she answers. “I’m not luring Zhenya to the NHL. We’re friends.”

“Sasha and Malkin were both drafted. You don’t think they want to play there?”

“That’s a question for them.” Syd wants to shower and eat with her teammates not answer stupid questions. “Besides,  _ I’m _ not drafted. How could I lure Zhenya?”

“You will be.”

Syd’s too well-trained to laugh or roll her eyes. “Women aren’t allowed in the NHL.”

“Yet.”

“Maybe not ever.”

_ Tick, tock _ she thinks.

#

The North American headlines are split between asking if she’s giving up on the NHL and accusing her of being impatient.

#

“You know,” Syd speculates at team dinner, after a 2-0 win. “If anything, I’d be seducing Zhenya to stay in the RSL. Velichkin should send me a fruit basket.”

“Do  _ not  _ say that,” Alekno tells her.

“I’m not stupid.”

“Or seducing anyone,” Volkov adds.

“Maybe with my hockey.”

Sasha nods. “Why would I want the NHL when I could have Syd as a center?”

Syd’s cheeks turn pink. “Fuck off.”

The team all laughs except for Sasha. He’s far too serious, as if he means it.


	18. Chapter 18

They win and they lose and the NHL doesn’t make any progress on their lockout. 

Elizabeth flies up for part of her winter break. Syd picks her up at the airport and hugs her for far too long. 

“I missed you too,” Elizabeth says.

They stop at Elizabeth’s hotel to drop off her bags then Syd brings her by the dorm to see Sasha and the others.

“Look,” Syd says, “I didn’t get lost at the airport.”

“Hi,” Sasha says,

Elizabeth smirks. “Hi.”

Rabinovich stares because even after a stupidly long flight, Elizabeth is put together and pretty. Syd edges closer to her friend and narrows her eyes. Sokolov laughs then, in English, says, “Welcome to Moscow.”

“We’re getting food then going to the hotel,” Sydney says. “I’ll be back in time for lights out.”

“How good is her Russian?” Sokolov asks. “I want to know all the dirt on little Greztka.” 

Syd rolls her eyes. “We were only roommates for one year, and you know all the important stuff.”

“Baseball brawl.”

National championship,” she fires back.

Sokolov strugs.

Elizabeth is being patient, but Syd knows it isn’t easy to stand around while other people talk in a foreign language. She waves to her teammates then takes Elizabeth for dinner.

“So?” Syd asks, bursting with questions. “First collegiate soccer season?”

“I didn’t play as much as I wanted. It sucks being the youngest again. But I’ll play more next year and I’ll be better. I miss having someone to look over my tape with me.”

“Like you don’t have coaches for that,” Syd says but she can’t help her little smile. “Are you rooming with someone on the team?”

“Another freshman. I tried to get a hockey weirdo but they were all out.”

She laughs as Sydney kicks her under the table.

“How have you been?”

“Ungrateful and slutty,” Syd deadpans.

Elizabeth laughs but here’s something sharp in her gaze as she says, “Those articles are bullshit. You’ve been having a good season.”

“Not good enough.”

“Syd -”

Sydney shakes her head. “Later,” she promises. They have the privacy of a booth and the people around them probably don’t speak English well enough to eavesdrop, but she doesn’t want to chance it. 

“Have I told you about Bryce?” Elizabeth asks, smoothly changing the topic.

#

Later turns out to be after a 3-1 win. Syd has permission to stay at the hotel with Elizabeth provided that she isn’t late to practice tomorrow. 

Alekno and Pavs both caution her about going out and even Sasha mentions that two girls in a big city isn’t good.

“You can come out with us,” Rabinovich offers.

“Girls night in,” Sydney says. Alekno looks skeptical and Syd huffs. “I haven’t seen her since the summer. If we want to party we’ll do it in America. We’re going to watch  _ Bend it Like Beckham  _ and talk about boys.”

Volkov tosses her a bottle of nail polish.

They’re still in the locker room which means, “How long have you been holding onto this?”

He grins. “Have fun tonight.”

Syd meets Elizabeth outside the locker room and they head out together. They stop at Basha’s because Syd’s hungry and knows she’ll be even hungrier later and she always takes leftovers home with her.

It’s after a game so the place is packed and in her team gear, Syd stands out. She smiles and talks and signs receipts and takeout boxes and pictures of kids in their hockey gear.

“Strong backcheck tonight,” a man tells her. His hand is on his son’s shoulder, keeping him close so he isn’t swept up in the bustle. “I told my son to watch you and learn.”

“Thank you,” Sydney says. “A good defense leads to good offense.” 

The boy tugs on Syd’s shirt and she kneels down. He offers her a shy smile then asks, “What’s it like playing with Ovechkin?”

“Fun.” She smiles. “I know that if I stick to my assignment and play good hockey then Sasha will put the puck in the net. Did you see his goal tonight? All I need to do is give him the puck and he’ll do the rest.”

“You always look happy when you’re on the ice with him.”

“He’s a good teammate,” Syd says. “What about your team?”

He tells her a little bit about his goalie and the d-man whose always putting him in headlocks but won’t let anyone on the other team touch him. They talk until Elizabeth taps her shoulder and points to Dmitry who’s standing near them and smiling.

“Basha says you sow chaos,” he tells her. “She put your food in boxes. You shouldn’t eat here tonight or it will get cold.”

It’s true so Syd signs the boy’s shirt, says goodbye to both him and his father then follows Dmitry to the back where food and an exit are waiting.

“Thank you,” Syd tells him. 

“Come back when it’s quieter,” Dmitry says. “Basha wants to fuss.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Syd says even though she knows it’s useless.

Dmitry laughs and pats her cheek before sending Syd and Elizabeth on their way. 

“I’m sorry,” Syd says as they cross the street to the hotel. “I didn’t think that through.”

“It was good,” Elizabeth says. “They really like you here.”

“We’re winning.”

“It’s more than that.” Elizabeth lets it drop until they’re inside her hotel room with the door shut and locked. Then, she turns to Syd, all business. “Are you staying?”

No one’s asked her that yet. She thinks her parents don’t want to know the answer and Pat still believes in the NHL. Syd’s belief is faltering.

“I don’t have any other options,” Syd answers.

“If they come around, I mean. If you’re happy here, you don’t have to leave for the NHL.”

“Will I be as happy if Sasha’s in DC and Zhenya’s in Pittsburgh?”

“They would stay. Don’t try and tell me they wouldn’t.”

“I can’t ask them to give up their dreams because I’m pissed at the NHL.”

“You wouldn’t have to ask.”

Syd sets their food down on the table and stretches across Elizabeth’s bed. “I’ve wanted the NHL for so long but it doesn’t want me back. Even if they do say yes, it shouldn’t have taken them this long. I’m hurt and I’m mad but striking back will only hurt me more. They don’t  _ care _ .”

Elizabeth lies down next to her. “Obviously, I want you closer, but more than that I want you happy.”

Syd turns her face into Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I never thought they’d actually say no. I’m running out of time.”

Elizabeth pulls her close and lets her cry.

#

Syd’s quiet after Elizabeth’s visit. She’s spent a lot of time avoiding things she didn’t want to think about, but she meant it when she said she’s running out of time.

Well, the NHL is. She has a future here in Moscow. She knew when she signed that it was an alternative to the Q and a back-up to the NHL. She just never believed that she'd need the back-up.

_ This is home _ , she thinks as she looks around the locker room. 

Sokolov and Grankin sit together, heads bent together and whispering. Rabinovich sits with Berezhko, poking each other and laughing. Alekno sketches out a play as Pavs stands next to him and makes adjustments.

They won’t all be here next year, Pavs and Markov returning to the NHL as soon as they can. Sasha too. But she can forge a team out of the people left. She can still feel welcome and included and like she has a place she belongs.

Volkov nudges her. “Gretzka?” 

“I’m happy,” she says.

Volkov tilts his head, looking at her like she’s weird before he ruffles her hair. “I’m glad.”

#

Oh February 16th, the NHL announces the official end of the season.

There’s almost a collective exhale as the uncertainty is over even if it’s not the result anyone wanted. Pavs knows he’s staying the rest of the season, Sasha and Zhenya don’t have to make a public choice, and Syd knows that her team will be hers for the rest of the season.

‘Now we work,” Coach says, his only mention of the situation.

#

Jack comes to visit in the spring. The team is far more suspicious of the American boy than they had been of Elizabeth. 

“We’re friends,” Syd explains.

Alekno stills insists on going to the airport with her when she picks Jack up.

“He doesn't speak Russian,” Syd says as they wait by baggage claim.

Alekno’s crossed arms and sour expression speak loud enough. Jack actually falters when he sees the man before he visibly fortifies himself.

Sydney hugs bim because fuck what anyone thinks and says, “I’m so glad you came to visit.”

“The USNTDP wouldn’t let me play baseball.”

She laughs and pats his shoulders as she steps back. “You’ve put on weight.”

“I’m still small, but I have time to work on it.”

“The lockout won’t last into next season.”

“I’ve been accepted to the University of Michigan. I want my degree. I can develop and get stronger while making sure I have a fallback plan.”

“Russia’s not a bad fallback.”

Jack smiles and tugs on her braid. “We’re not all you.”

Alekno pointedly clears this throat.

“This is Petyr Alekno, my captain,” she tells Jack. Then, in Russian. “This is Jack. He was one of my d-men at Shattuck. He looked out for me on the ice.”

“And off it?”

Syd rolls her eyes. “He and Elizabeth dated. I helped them get time alone.”

Alekno’s look is slightly less hostile. “She’s too good for him.”

Syd rolls her eyes and pokes Jack. “Hotel then food?”

“Some things never change.”

“I’m bulking up too.” 

She flexes. When he laughs, she punches his arm, and laughs as he yelps.

#

She’s able to keep Jack to herself the first night, but the guys insist on meeting him the next day. He takes it as an excuse to watch practice, and Syd’s nervous with him in the stands. She always wants to play her best but there’s extra motivation when people watch her and their opinions matter to her.

“Are you sure you’re not trying to impress him?” Sokolov asks after she roofs the puck on Vasiliev.

“He’s seen me score too many goals to be impressed by that,” Syd says.

She jumps into the next drill, fighting Sasha for the puck along the boards. 

At the end of practice, she’s sweaty and tired, but she feels good. She smiles and jokes with Volkov and lets Berezhko tug on her braid and she leans against Sasha once he’s close enough.

“Shower,” she tells Jack.

“Then lunch,” Berezhko says in English. His smile has too many teeth to be friendly as he turns it on Jack. “The team wants to get to know you.”

“Sure,” Jack says, tucking his hands into his pockets, casual. “You’ll help me translate?”

“Not Gretzka?”

Jack’s eyebrows climb skyhigh. “Gretzka?”

“Don’t start with me,” Syd says, “It wasn’t my idea. And I can translate.”

“But you won’t.” It’s Jack’s turn to smile. “Someone needs to tell the scowly one that he needs to protect you better.”

“It’s  _ practice _ .” 

“I’ve been watching games. Your d-men have one job and they’re not doing it.”

“They have multiple jobs! And coddling me isn’t one of them.” Syd pushes off Sasha so she can stand tall and argue.

“See,” Jack tells Berezhko. “This is why I need your help.”

“We have a lot of scowly guys on our team.”

Sydney throws her hands up but no one cares so she goes to shower. When she’s done, Jack’s talking to Markov. Syd follows them, listening to their conversation about when to jump into the rush as they walk to the dorms.

Alekno nods, pleased, when Jack looks impressed by the cafeteria. 

“They  _ cook _ cook for you?”

“Super treatment in the Superleague,” she says.

Jack groans and shoves her shoulder.

She shoves him back and it would’ve escalated into a full on tussle, but Sokolov steps between them.

“This is your baseball friend?” Sokolov asks.

“No,” Sydney says but it’s too late because he grabs Berezhko and makes him translate so Jack can tell them embarrassing stories about Syd’s time at Shattuck.

It’s not as terrible as she pretends it is. It’s nice to see them accepting Jack even if it’s a little bit at her expense.

They all eat lunch together then break off, the younger plays to set up in the entertainment room.

“Video games,” Sydney says and Jack lights up.

She plays until she loses then tosses her controller to Rabinovich. Tucked between Sasha and Jack, it’s easy to feel comfortable. It’s even easier to fall asleep.

She wakes up to a movie on the screen and Sasha snoring softly next to her. Jack’s elbow digs into her rib cage so she shifts until she’s comfortable then sleeps again. When she wakes up for real, the rest of the room is stirring as well. It reminds her of Shattuck and cuddle piles with her team and things she didn’t realize she missed until just now. The ache in her chest is part comfort and part nostalgia and she burrows closer to Jack.

He runs his hand through her hair, loose now and a mess from her nap.

“I don’t get this anymore,” she confesses. “They’re careful with me. It’s better than the opposite, but I miss it.”

“I’ll hug you as much as you want while I’m here.”

“Yeah?” Sydney finds a way to get even closer. “I think Alekno might have something to say about that.”

“Secret hugs.”

Sydney laughs. “That’s even worse, but thank you.”

#

They have two home games while Jack is here. They barely squeeze out a win in the first one. As soon as she’s showered and finds him lurking outside the locker room, she says, “What did you see?”

“Syd,” he begins.

“I trust your eyes.”

“Okay,” he says, fight going out of him. “Zone entries…”

They talk all the way to the club and they would’ve kept talking except Sokolov plants himself between them and says, “Fun.”

“But,” Syd protests.

Grankin presses a shot into her hand. “Drink.”

She drinks.

She’s three shots in and feeling better about the game when Rabinovich drags all the young people on the dance floor. Hilariously, Sasha is nominated as her chaperone. He playfully fights Jack whenever he gets too close and, when no one’s looking, slips his hand up her shirt.

Well, almost no one is looking.

Jack’s mouth falls open and she knows she’ll get an earful later.

#

Later isn’t that night. When they split their ways after the club, Berezhko elects himself Jack’s watcher.

“I’ll get him back to his hotel,” he promises.

“I’ll go with you,” Sydney says.

“To a boy’s hotel room?” Sasha asks. “At  _ night _ ?” He wraps his arms around Sydney and laughs as she elbows him.

“Breakfast tomorrow?” Sydney asks Jack. “I got us some ice time.”

Jack lights up. “Yeah?”

“I can’t let you get rusty on my watch.”

“Rusty?” he demands but he laughs afterward.

They hug under the careful watch of her teammates then they’re ushered in different directions.

#

After practice, Syd lingers on the ice. Her teammates dismiss it as Syd being Syd until Jack troops out in borrowed gear. 

She flicks a puck to him. “Bet I can take it from you.”

They laugh and chase each other around the ice, flighting for the puck then just fighting, wrestling each other to the ice until they’re too tired to move. 

Her assistant coach skates over, amused, and pokes her with a stick. “Lunchtime,” he says.

“Five more minutes?”

He laughs and offers her a hand up.

#

Pictures come out of her and Jack practicing on Russian ice and with them, speculation that Syd’s trying to tempt him away from the NHL.

It also leads to another slew of articles speculating on the draft order, whether Jack or Bobby Ryan will be the number one pick. 

“You should be a part of the conversation,” Jack says. “I’m good but I’m not  _ you _ . And Bobby Ryan sure as hell isn’t.”

They finally have some time alone, holed up in his hotel room with a bunch of English movies, but they were distracted by the internet.

“But I’m not a part of it.”

“You think they would’ve learned from the Q. If they don’t value you then you have the power to walk.”

“Maybe they don’t care. Or maybe they don’t think anyone will say no to the NHL.”

“Will you?”

“We still don’t know if they’ll take me.” She falls quiet, but Jack doesn’t push her. Maye that’s what makes her brave enough to say, “I don’t think I’m playing in North America next year.”

Jack blows out a slow breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Moscow values me. I have a team I’ve won with and that I can win with again. I have a place I belong. Why would I give that up. I -” her voice cracks at the thought of being away from her family for another year. And probably more. The NHL might not want her if she turns them down.

Of course, right now they don’t want her at all.

“Is this a bad time to ask about Ovechkin?”

She laughs. “Depends. Will you try to fight him?”

“Do you like him?”

“Yeah.”

“And is he good to you?”

“He is.”

“Then we’re good. I’m guessing the team doesn’t know?”

“They don’t. And it’s staying that way.”

“I won’t tell. Just - a hockey player? Really, Syd?”

“Who else do I talk to?” Then, because it sounds like she picked him because he was her only option, she adds, “He’s good at hockey, he’s funny. He’s sneakily nice.”

“He was also drafted first overall to the Washington Capitals.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “We got lucky in a way with the lockout. I don’t know what will happen next year.”

If women aren’t allowed in the NHL will Sasha and Zhenya stay in Russia when she does? Will she stay and they’ll leave? What if women are allowed and she still stays? She doesn’t want them to follow her, but she doesn’t want them to leave her either.

She -

“I don’t know what will happen next year,” she repeats and fear makes her voice waver.

Jack slings an arm around her and pulls her closer to him. “Wherever you are will be better for you being there.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

#

They win their second game 4-2 with Syd scoring the game winner off a pass from Pavs and assisting on the insurance goal with a pass to him.

Afterward, all Jack can do is stare and occasionally say “ _ Pavel Datsyuk _ ” in the revenant tone of someone who grew up watching the Red Wings.

Eventually, Pavs looks over and says, “I can hear you.”

Jack turns bright red and snaps his mouth shut.

“Crosby’s a good player,” Pavs says coming over. “She says you’re playing for Michigan next year.”

Jack nods.

“You should come to some games.”

“Definitely,” Jack says, finding his voice. 

“Do you want a Dynamo or Red Wings jersey?” Pavs asks and Jack’s brain crashes.

Both Syd and Pavs laugh at him. 

#

Syd puts the lockout and the NHL and next year aside to focus on  _ this  _ one. Once Jack leaves, she’s back to staying late at practice either on the ice or in the weight room, improving in every way she can. She has a rotation of teammates she asks to stay with her so no one burns out.

Coach tries a couple times to curb her enthusiasm, but she convinces him that she knows what she’s doing. All the points she racks up don’t hurt either.

She was top-10 in the points race at New Year’s but she pulls ahead after the lockout’s officially announced and keeps going. She plays as if no one can keep up with her and, on some nights, they can’t.

There’s a return of the Dynamo Duo moniker as she brings Sasha along for the ride. She sets him up on the power play, at even-strength and, once, on an empty net.

“That goal could’ve been yours,” he says once the media’s cleared out.

“Your family was in the stands,” she says. “Besides, assists are the Russian way.”

“You’re Canadian,” Rabinovich says as if she’s forgotten.

“I prefer the Russian style.”

She can feel both Volkov and Pavs staring so she pulls her jersey over her head.

#

While Syd’s running away with the points race, Zhenya and his team are running away with first place in the League. They bulldoze their opponents night in and night out, including a 8-2 blowout of Ak Bars Kazan, made all the more remarkable for Kazan having eleven NHL players on its roster.

“They’re for real,” Alekno says once the game is over. 

The whole team watched together in the dorms and no one came close to guessing how the game would end. 

“We’ll be ready for them,” Mikhailov says.

“If someone takes out Nabokov,” Grankin mutters.

“Sasha will score on him,” Syd says, confident.

“Hat trick in the first game,” Sasha agrees.

#

They don’t face Magnitogorsk in the finals.

They lose the round before against Ak Bars Kazan.

Five different articles come out the next day about how it’s proof that Sydney isn’t an NHL-level player.

“If she can’t handle playing again half an NHL team then she’d be buried by a full one,” Jeremy Roenick says.

“Hockey is a man’s sport,” Mike Milbury agrees. 

Sydney, with no hockey to be distracted by, gets drunk and cries. A lot.

#

She regroups enough to congratulate Zhenya on his Cup of Russia win then she packs up and flies home. She can’t be around Sasha after they lost and she can’t be around Zhenya after he won. Besides, she needs to get used to being without them. 

Because the NHL  _ still  _ hasn’t gotten their shit together.

When her mom picks her up at the airport, she hugs Sydney then opens her mouth and Syd says, “I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it.”

“Okay,” Trina says because she knows how to navigate Syd’s moods. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Whatever’s fine. Then, because that sounds ungrateful, she adds. “I’m happy to be home.”

“But not as happy as last year.”

Sydney looks out the window.

“You can’t expect to win every season.”

“I want to. This was an important season. What if the NHL owners agree with Roenick? What if -” Syd cuts herself off. “Meatloaf for dinner? Or chicken, I guess. Taylor hates meatloaf.”

“She likes it now,” Trina says. “Probably out of self-defense. Sweetie -”

“Not now. Please.”

“Okay.”

They drive the rest of the way home in silence.

#

Sydney makes an effort for Taylor but once her sister’s in bed, settling only after promises that Syd will pick her up from school for sister time, the smile slips from her face.

She sits down on the couch in the living room, her head heavy, ready for bed herself.

“My contract is up,” she says.

Her mom looks up from her crossword, alarmed.

“I had a very good season,” Sydney continues. “Brisson will be able to get me a better contract this time around.”

“Sydney,” Trina begins.

“Be patient,” Troy says. “Right now, there’s no hockey for anyone. There will be hockey for you once the NHL is back.”

“There  _ is _ hockey for me now,” Sydney says. “In Russia.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about this,” Trina says.

Sydney picks up the book off the coffee table, something about traveling in the Maritimes. She flips through it until she’s ready for bed.

#

Sydney’s invited to the Olympic training camp. She knows the training camp invite isn’t a guarantee that she’ll be on the team in Turin and that even if she’s on the team that it isn’t a guarantee that she’ll play. Still, the fact that she’s  _ wanted _ brings a smile to her face.

“Do you think it detracts from your case with the NHL?” she’s asked in her first interview after the announcement. “You’ve been campaigning to play with men and now you’ve been invited to play with women.”

Sydney arches her eyebrows, allows the cameras to see her opinion on that bullshit question. “I’ve been asked to try out for the Canadian Olympic team. There’s no higher honor than that. I’m grateful for the opportunity, and I’m excited for the challenge, and I can’t wait to meet and play with women that I’ve looked up to for years.”

“But the NHL,” the reporter prompts.

_ I don’t want to talk about the NHL. There’s nothing to talk about.  _

“I’m here to talk about the Olympics,” Sydney says. 

#

The next day, Sydney runs errands with her mom and picks Taylor up from school for another sister-day and reminds herself how much she loves her family and Canada. This winter she’ll, hopefully, put on the red and white and represent her country at the highest level.

But when she’s not doing that…

She call Brisson three days after the training camp announcement. 

“Congrats on the scoring title,” he tells her. “And the invitation to camp. It’s been a while since we talked.”

“Thank you,” she says. “They’ll look good going into negotiations.”

“Kid?” he asks, hesitant, as if she isn’t a few months away from turning eighteen and being an adult.

“Will you reach out to management?” she asks. “I want to have a new contract in place before training camp.”

“As a bluffing tactic? The RSL won’t like it if you break the contract for the NHL.”

“I’d enter into the contract in good faith. Pat -” tears well up in Syd’s eyes and she angrily wipes them away. “It’s time to stop dreaming and focus on reality.”

“They’re getting close to a deal. A little more time and -”

“They’ve had time and they’ve done  _ shit  _ with it. Jack’s trying to figure out his schedule without knowing when the draft will be. I still don’t know if I’ll even be invited. People recognize me in Moscow, Pat. They tell me good luck on game days and ask me to kiss their babies. Basha feeds me whenever I walk into her shop and her nephew smuggles me out the back when too many people want to talk to me. I have a team that respects me and a coach who knows how to play me to my strengths. I like it there.”

There’s a long silence.

“Alright,” Brisson finally says. “What do you want?”

#

News leaks that Sydney’s agent is in talks with Dynamo Moscow about a contract extension.

“Good strategy,” her dad says as the news makes every hockey outlet there is.

“Impatient,” Jeremy Roenick accuses.

“Good for you,” Jack tells her.

Sasha calls to demand, “What the hell, Sydney?”

Zhenya snatches the phone from him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He sounds hurt, the same kind that’s probably buried beneath Sasha’s anger. Guilt hits her, quick and sharp.

“There’s no NHL for me,” she says. “I need to look towards my future.”

“And we’re not a part of it?” Zhenya snaps.

“Of course you are.” Her voice rises too. “But you shouldn’t give up on the NHL. It’s your dream.”

“I want  _ you _ .”

She hangs up.

#

She calls them back the next day once she’s had time to think and put her feelings into something coherent. 

“I can’t be responsible for your future,” Sydney says.

Zhenya makes an angry sound.

“Idiot,” Sasha says. “You aren’t. We’re deciding, same as you. If we decide NHL or RSL then it’s our choice.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sydney says.

“It’s okay,” Sasha promises. “But if you could pick us up from the airport tomorrow then that would be good.”

“What?”

“Zhenya wanted to yell in person so he bought plane tickets. He’s an impulsive person. And his mother tried so hard with him.”

“We’re coming to visit,” Zhenya says.

#

There are pictures of Sydney picking Sasha and Zhenya up from the airport and either those or Sydney’s contract talks prompt the NHL to say, “We’re still ironing out the details of the salary cap, but women will be permitted in the League.”

Syd calls Brisson with Sasha on one side of her and Zhenya on the other. “I want an NHL clause. At the end of each season, I want the option to break my contract, free of consequence, so I can play in the NHL.”

“That will bring your price down.”

“I want the option.”

He doesn’t ask when the NHL became the option rather than the goal.

“That’s a good idea,” Sasha says. He nudges Zhenya. “We should try it.”

“Velichkin will say yes then, when I want to leave, he’ll say no.”

“I suppose I should’ve figured they’d be on this call,” Brisson says. “Hello, boys. You caused quite the stir.”

“Enough to end the lockout?” Sasha asks in English.

“Maybe.”

#

Syd, Sasha, and Zhenya aren’t the only ones in contract negotiations. Other players are too and maybe that’s what finally ends the lockout, the realization that there might not be any star players left to play if both sides don’t get their acts together. 

On July 22nd the lockout officially ends and a ping pong ball gives the Pittsburgh Penguins the first pick of the draft.

Zhenya nudges her.

She shakes her head. She refuses to hope.


	19. Chapter 19

An NHL exec calls to invite her to the draft, one of only twenty prospects who will attend in person.

“That’s a good sign,” her dad says.

Jeremy Roenick calls it pandering to PC culture. 

#

“They won’t let us room together,” Jack says when Syd shows up in Ottawa, “but we have a connecting door.”

“Good.” She hugs him then, aware of the cameras, drops her voice to ask. “Superman boxers?”

“Tomorrow.”

They break their hug in time for the cameras to crowd Bobby Ryan.

“Are you excited to be a Pittsburgh Penguin?” he’s asked.

Syd can’t quite keep her expression neutral. That should be her, tripping over cameras and project to be the first overall pick. Instead, a balding man with thick glasses shoves a recorder in her face and asks, “Do you think you belong here with the elite prospects?”

Next to her, Jack bristles.

“Someone does or I wouldn’t have been invited,” she answers.

“Where do you think you’ll go?”

She smiles. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Do you think your inclusion is a desperate grab for attention after all the negative press from the lockout?”

“Are you even allowed to be here?” Jack demands. “You don’t sound like a credentialed journalist.”

All the cameras in their area swing towards them.

“Have a good evening,” Syd says before she drags jack away.

Bobby Ryan falls into step with them as they head for the elevators.

“This isn’t a good way not to get noticed,” Sydney warns.

He shrugs. “I was getting noticed on my own. Besides, maybe Johnson will scare my reporters away too.”

“VIP treatment only,” Jack says. “But I guess you can hang with us.”

Syd elbows him. “Do you want to come hide in Jack’s hotel room and order room service?”

“Burgers?” Jack asks, hopeful. 

“You probably want to be a Canadien, eh?” Bobby asks Syd.

Jack laughs. “She wants to be a Penguin.”

Syd elbows him again, harder this time. “I just want to be drafted.”

“Shitty how they took forever,” Bobby says.

“Yeah.”

He comes up with them and they eat and watch sitcom reruns until Zhenya and Sasha call.

“I have to take this,” Syd says.

She ducks into her room and closes the door before she answers.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” Zhenya says. “Sasha says hi too but his mouth is too full of cookies.”

Sasha garbles something approximating a hello. They’re in Cole Harbor with her parents. They’ll fly out for the draft but, like Syd did last year, they’ll watch from the hotel. She wishes they were here now. Her bed is too empty with just her in it and she’s nervous. She wants to be tucked between two people who have been through this before.

“Dress or suit?” Zhenya asks. Last time they talked, she hadn’t decided.

But after the reporters this evening, the answer is easy. “Dress. I won’t let anyone forget that I’m a girl.”

“Good,” Sasha says. “How’s Johnson?”

“He’s good. Nervous, I think, but we all are.”

“It’ll be a good day,” Zhenya promises. “You’re the best.”

They talk for a little longer before she talks to her parents then it’s time for bed.

In the morning, she eats breakfast then changes into a blue dress. Dynamo blue, she thinks as she zips up the back. It’s a modest dress, more like a skirt suit than an evening gown. It’s sleeveless to show off her arms and the hem falls to just above her knees. It means she’s in nylons and flats, the girliest she’s ever looked for hockey.

Her mom helps her with her hair then her make-up and there are tears in Trina’s eyes as she cups Syd’s cheek. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

Syd rolls her eyes but she blushes, visible even through the layer of foundation on her face.

“Don’t believe me?” Trina open the door between her parents’ room and the one next door.

Zhenya and Sasha tumble through. Sasha stares, caught off guard the way he always is when she dresses up. 

It’s Zhenya who smiles and says, “You look very nice, Syd.”

Trina, who understood Zhenya’s tone if not his words, nods, pleased to have had her opinion seconded. Sydney wonders how much her mom knows, or at least suspects, about Syd’s relationship with Sasha and Zhenya.

Sasha touches the neckline of her dress. “Good color,” he says. 

“Maple Leafs blue?” Syd teases.

“Missing something,” Sasha says.

He looks at Zhenya who pulls a box out of his pocket. She opens it, gaze flicking to them before she sees what they bought her. It’s a gold chain, thinner than the ones they wear but undeniably similar.

“Happy draft day,” Zhenya says. His knuckles brush her chin and Sasha puts her necklace on for her. “We’re with you.” He pats the chain then  brushes a kiss over her cheek.

Sasha squeezes her shoulders then Syd has to go. She walks into the draft, flanked by her parents and holding Taylor’s hand. They take their seats and Syd smiles for the cameras undoubtedly trained on her. 

She fidgets during the Commissioner’s speech, her stomach winding tighter and tighter as they approach the draft itself. 

Finally, the Penguins organization files onto the stage.

She fiddles with her necklace as she thinks about being drafted to Zhenya’s team like he predicted two years ago when she first met him. 

She’s surprised when Mario Lemieux is the one to step up to the mic once the thank yous are finished. She wants to look over at Bobby Ryan, but she’s afraid she won’t be able to stay neutral if she does. 

“With the first pick of the 2005 draft, the Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select, from HC Dynamo Moscow, Sydney Crosby.”

The room falls silent.

Every camera in the place swings to Sydney. At first, she can’t move. Then Taylor nudges her and says, “That’s you, Syd,” and Syd stands up.

She hugs Taylor then her parents then makes her way to the stage. Jack has an aisle seat and he holds a hand out for a high five. She slaps his hand and it breaks some of her haze.

She’s been drafted. 

_ First _ . 

To the  _ Penguins _ . 

She’s smiling as she reaches the team. She shakes hands and says her thank yous then pulls her Pens jersey over hear head. It probably clashes with her dress, but she doesn’t care.

From not being welcome to being the first drafted.

She’s ushered backstage to watch the next picks.

Bobby Ryan to Anaheim.

Jack to Carolina.

There are hugs once they’re all together then pictures. Syd stands between them, holding up one finger, and she smiles brighter than she’s smiled before in her life.

She can play with Zhenya next year.

She can play for the team that Mario Lemieux owns. 

After the first day is done, Syd’s finally freed from the back room. Her parents are a couple meters to her left and the Pens are a couple meters to her right but before either of them can reach her, the reporters find her.

“How does it feel to be the first overall pick?” she’s asked. Then, before she can answer, “Are you as shocked as everyone else? There’s speculation that Lemieux should’ve stuck to playing and left ownership alone.”

Syd’s smile falters.

“Everyone knows the girl issue was a major factor in the lockout,” another reporter says. “What do you owe the NHL after you contributed so much to the lockout?

What does she  _ owe _ ?

She almost spits out  _ nothing _ before her media training kicks in. “I’m grateful to be drafted to the NHL. It was a dream I gave up on last year. I still can't quite believe that I was drafted.”

“I guess you don’t need to keep negotiating with Moscow.”

Syd’s smile is barely civil. “I certainly have a decision to make.”

She walks away before she snaps. She knows she’s being watched so she doesn’t storm out, but she doesn't linger either. She finds an empty room and blows out a slow breath. It does nothing to drain the anger simmering beneath her skin.

“Fuck,” she mutters.

The door opens and she turns to see Mario Lemieux in the doorway.

He stares at her.

She stares back.

“May I come in?” he asks.

“Sure. I mean, yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a busy day,” he says. He shuts the door behind him as he comes in. “It’ll only get busier.”

“The NHL is a circus.”

He laughs. “You figured it out quickly.”

“What if I don’t want to be a freak show?”

“You won’t be in PIttsburgh. You were the best player at the draft. I made sure everyone knew it.”

“They want to know what I owe the League.” Fury bubbles up. “I don’t owe the NHL  _ shit _ . I’ve made a home in Moscow. And now I’m expected to drop it and be  _ grateful _ ? I -” realizing who she’s talking to, Syd snaps her mouth shut. She can’t quite bring herself to apologize though.

“The NHL has let you down,” Lemieux says.

“What can it offer me that the RSL can’t? I - I’m grateful for what you did and that you believe in me.”

“But it’s not enough. What do you want?”

Syd’s gaze snaps to his, disbelieving. “What do I -” she shakes her head. “I want to play with Sasha and Zhenya. I want the NHL to be better.”

“I can try my best with the first. I’m afraid the second will be on you.”

Syd laughs but Lemieux doesn’t laugh with her.

“I’m assuming that where you go they’ll follow.”

“They make their own choices.”

Lemieux sighs and looks ten years older, like a retired hockey player rather than the center she’s looked up to for so many years. “We’ll make it work,” he says, seemingly to himself. Then, louder, “I should let you celebrate. Would you like to have dinner with the Penguins management? Malkin, of course, is invited.”

“Thank you,” Sydney says.

She heads up to her room, still in a daze. She can't believe she gave Mario Lemieux an ultimatum. She can’t believe he took her seriously.

Her mom opens the door, everyone crammed into her room. Her mom hugs her then Taylor. Her dad’s next. By the time she pulls Sasha and Zhenya close, she’s trembling. 

“Sydney?” Trina asks.

“Zhenya and I have been invited to dinner,” Sydney says. “And I should talk to Pat.”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Troy says. “They won’t bring a contract to dinner.”

_ Even if they did, I don’t think I’d sign it. _

#

Syd and Zhenya eat dinner with Penguins management and it’s a little like last year except Zhenya’s English is better and Sidney feels like a fraud, because everyone at the table is so hopeful and she - she thinks she’s going to squash that hope.

Maybe she’s overreacting. Maybe Lemieux’s right. If she wants the NHL to be better then she ends to make it that way. Does she really want to hide in Russia forever?

The next morning pictures come out from the dinner.

Zhenya’s arm is stretched across the back of her seat and she’s turned to him, laughing at something he said.

_ Mario Lemieux: Matchmaker?  _ one headline reads.

“Fuck the NHL,” Sydney says.

She calls Brisson. “Tell Moscow I’m ready to come home.”

#

Her mom cries. 

Taylor sobs.

Her dad keeps opening his mouth as if he has something to say but he never says it.

When she returns to Moscow, they give her an A. Sasha’s given the other. She knows it won’t look good to the North American media, but she doesn’t care. She accepts the responsibility knowing that she’s earned it.

The first time she and Sasha meet with Alekno, he looks between them and asks, “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Something very good,” Sasha answers.

Syd laughs and pulls out her list of things she thinks the team can improve on. They talk over lunch then over dinner and they probably would’ve kept going if Alekno’s wife hadn’t come to tell him that the girls wanted a good night kiss.

“Us too,” Sasha says then laughs and dances out of the way when Alekno tries to call his bluff.

#

“You’re back?” Volkov asks the first day in the locker room.

“I didn’t want you to miss me.”

Volkov laughs but later he pulls her aside, serious. “No one thought you were coming back.”

“I’m happy here,” she says. “I have friends and fans and favorite places to eat. I’m not ready to give that up.”

“Your Russian got better over the summer.”

“Sasha and Zhenya helped me practice.”

“No one thought they were coming back either.”

“They did.”

“Keep your secrets,” Volkov says. “I’m glad you’re here. Now that Kazan isn’t unfairly stacked, we’re making it to the finals.”

“Dream a little bigger,” Sydney says. “We’re winning.”

#

There are new people on the team and new people mean an adjustment as they realize there’s a woman in the locker room with them. But since  _ Sydney _ isn’t the new one, the first time she pulls her shirt off, Grankin says, “Eyes to yourself,” and that’s that.

On the ice it’s an adjustment too but after the third time Tishov doesn’t pass to her Khtey pulls him aside.

“She was the League’s point leader for a reason last season,” he says. “Give her the damn puck.”

She’s careful not to look over, because she doesn’t want to spook the rookie or Khtey.

#

After the first practice she’s pulling her shirt over head when Alekno says, “Keep your clothes on, Gretzka, the cameras want you.”

“Isn’t that the best time to take your clothes off?” Sasha asks.

“Exhibitionist,” Sokolov mutters.

Syd laughs.

“How do you know that word?” Sokolov asks.

Volkov turns to Sasha, suspicious. “What the hell did you teach her this summer?”

Sasha waggles his eyebrows.

Syd snaps him with a towel.

She knew accepting the A would mean more media responsibility so she settles in her stall without complaint. She’s still nervous as the reporters swarm her stall, afraid they’ll trip her up with a question. Her Russian has gotten better but she knows that better doesn’t necessarily mean good.

“A lot of changes this off-season. Are you ready for the A?”

“The coaching staff thinks so. It’s a responsibility, but one I’m prepared for. I know hockey, and I know my team. Good things will happen.”

“Is it true that you think of Moscow as home?”

“I do. This is where my team and my life is.”

“When are you settling down with a nice Russian boy?”

Suddenly, Syd has the attention of the entire locker room. She laughs, light and easy. “Once one can get past these guys. So not anytime soon.”

This time, the reporters laugh along with her.

#

They play their first game of the season in St. Petersburg.

Cretin, a hulking winger, slams her into the boards on her first shift of the game. “You’re still fucking here?”

“And kicking your ass.”

She spins away, the puck on her stick. Cretin chases after her, but she’s too fast. She passes to Sasha who puts the puck on net. The goalie snaps up the puck with his glove.

“I’ll give you a better screen next time,” Syd tells Sasha as they skate to the bench. “Just don’t hit me, eh?”

“Eh,” Sasha repeats.

#

Back in the U.S., Mario Lemieux comes out of retirement to play for the Penguins. There are rumors that the team will fold or be bought out and moved to Kansas City. Lemieux’s announcement quells the worst of the rumors, but a series of articles come out, dragging both Syd and Zhenya through the mud for abandoning the Penguins.

Sydney spends a lot of time on the phone with Zhenya after they come out.

“We don’t owe the Penguins anything,” Sydney says. “Or the NHL.”

“The Penguins are your favorite. There might not be Penguins soon.”

“ _ Pittsburgh  _ Penguins,” she says as if she doesn’t care where the team is housed. She bows her head. “I’m not ready for the NHL. Guilt won’t change that.”

Zhenya sighs, loud enough to be heard loudly through the phone. She doesn’t doubt that guilt weighs heavy on him. It always has. Guilt and responsibility go hand in hand and he has too much of both. He feels like he owes Magnitogorsk which makes him stay, but he feels like he owes Pittsburgh too which makes him feel guilty.

She wonders how he feels that Syd chose to stay in Russia and play on Sasha’s team rather than go to the NHL to play on his. She’s too much of a coward to ask.

“They drafted me to make a difference,” Zhenya says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “This isn’t what they wanted.”

“We’ll play for the Penguins,” Syd promises.

“Mario is magic but not  _ that _ magic.”

“Two years,” Sydney says. “We give him two years to try then we go no matter what. I mean, you can go next year.I’m staying two. I need to show them that I don’t owe them. They can’t snap their fingers and expect me to jump.”

“Two years,” Zhenya repeats.

“Plenty of time for me to win another two Cups.”

“Two! You won’t even get one.”

Sydney laughs and the conversation moves to less charged topics.

#

The first time they lose, the A weighs heavy against Syd’s chest long after she’s taken her jersey off. She’s brutally honest in her post-game, taking as much fault as she can but pointing out team faults, both offensively and defensively.

Then she spends three hours compiling the worst of their mistakes with what they should have done and drills to fix it.

She brings her masterpiece to practice the next morning. Alekno’s there early, sitting in the locker room looking at his phone. 

“We need to be better,” Sydney says.

“We will be.”

“Team video review? I have some ideas.”

“It’s the third game, Gretzka.”

_ You look tired _ , she thinks, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the heavy slump to his shoulders.

“So we should cut off our bad habits now.”

“One game isn’t an indictment.”

“I didn’t stay here to suck,” Syd snaps. She has evidence and a game plan and a desire to be better. Shouldn’t everyone else?

Alekno looks up from his phone, expression hard. “I’ve been playing for this team a hell of a lot longer than you, kid.”

Embarrassment and anger flush her cheeks. She tosses her USB in her locker. “I’m getting a lift in before practice.” She storms out and hits the weights hard. 

_ She _ won’t settle.

#

She doesn’t avoid Alekno. She’s one of his As, and he’s a veteran center. She still has a lot to learn from him. She does keep some distance though. Her pride is stung, and every time someone makes a mistake in practice she bristles because she could fix that.

She’s hardest on herself. She could’ve tied the game with a deflection if she’d held her ground in front of the net, but she wasn’t strong enough. She let herself be knocked around. Time in the weight room will help with that but so will on-ice practice.

None of her teammates will stay with her after practice, not even Sasha, but she recruits a whole slew of coaches to knock her around in front of the net. She can barely stand at the end of it, but she feels good, like she worked for something.

The next day her coaches shoo her off the ice so she strips off her hockey gear and hits the weight room. Rabinovich and Tishov join her but they stick together, doing their own routines as she does hers. She doesn’t stop until her shirt’s soaked through with sweat and her legs tremble too much for her to lift anything else. 

She stumbles back to the locker room and takes a long shower.

The dining hall is mostly cleared out when she gets there. Rabinovich and Tishov sit across from each other, heads bent together. There isn’t a space for her so she takes her plates to the far side. She boots up her tablet and taps in her password.

“Break time,” Sasha decrees, dropping into the seat across from her. Then he eyes her full plate. “Did you  _ just _ get back?”

“Weight room,” she answers.

Sasha opens his mouth, probably to scold, but a sharp look from her makes him reconsider. He’s her friend and boyfriend and fellow A, but he doesn’t get to tell her what to do.

He snatches her tablet and pulls up some stunt video off YouTube. He laughs as people execute wicked skateboard moves then laughs harder when they wipe out.

When a kid with blond cherub curls lands hard, straddling a metal railing, Sasha groans then hits replay. He watches through squinted eyes and winces before the guy’s even fallen.

“What’re you watching?” Rabinovich asks.

He and Tishov shuffle over. 

Sasha pats the space next to him. “Want to watch?”

“Ah!” Tishov says as the guy lands crotch-first on the railing. “I have a better video.”

Syd looks between them as they pull up video after video. She eats, shaking her head as the boys shout and groan and shy away from the video only to pull up another. 

#

Alekno finds her after practice. She looks up, wary, then glances to her left. Volkov’s still here which means an ally if she needs it but also a witness if Alekno chews her out again.

“Lunch?” Alekno asks.

“Sure.” Lunch with her captain means at his house or somewhere nice-ish and she won’t turn that down.

“Bring your tablet.”

Syd lights up. “Yeah?”

“You can watch cartoons while you’re waiting for the food,” Volkov says. 

She flips him off then eyes Alekno, trying to puzzle out if that’s what he means.

“You’re suspicious like a cat,” Alekno says.

Volkov dangles a sweaty sock in front of her face.

She punches him in the stomach.

#

Alekno takes her to a small cafe. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me what you have.”

“Have?”

He motions to her tablet. 

She can feel her suspicion return, shoulders drawing up. She scowls and tries to stop because now all she can think about are cats, and she’s not a fucking feline.

“The day after a game isn’t the time,” Alekno tells her. “I know that game was shit. Anyone with eyes did. But you need to give it some space, take a deep breath. You want to react to the game but not be reactionary.”

It makes sense but… “I hate waiting.”

“I’ve noticed.” He taps her screen. Show me what you saw. We can recommend two drills to Coach for tomorrow’s practice.”

“ _ Two? _ ”

The grin returns. “Second lesson, don’t overwhelm everyone. Think of it as a challenge. What are the two things you think will make the most impact?”

She kind of hates that she sits up taller at the word challenge. Alekno’s outright laughing at her now.

#

“Good lunch?” Sasha asks when she gets back. His face is closed off, difficult to read which means he’s trying to hide something from her.

“He told me to calm down,” Syd answers.

Rabinovich laughs. “He didn’t need to take you to lunch for that. Sasha does it like three times a day.”

Syd eyes the space between them on the couch, considering. She covers a big yawn with her hand.

“No,” Sasha says, springing to his feet. “You’re not sleeping on the couch. It’s bad for your back and the noise makes you restless.”

Both true but there are people here.

“Then nap with me,” she says.

Rabinovich chokes on his next breath.

“We can leave the fucking door open,” Syd says. “I did this all the time at Shattuck and it wasn’t weird.”

_ Please don’t make this weird. _

_ Please don’t say no. _

“Okay,” Sasha says.

“I feel like I should be doing something to stop this,” Rabinovich says.

“Enjoy your movie,” Syd says. She grabs Sasha’s hand in case he’s having second thoughts. 

#

“You and Sasha napped together?” Alekno asks.

“Fully clothed, above the covers, door open,” Syd answers. “It was the best nap I’ve had in a while.”

Since this summer when she napped with Sasha and Zhenya.

“Gretzka,” Alekno begins, but she doesn’t let him find his argument. 

“You have your family here,” she says. “I don’t.”

Alekno pauses then says, “You aren’t hugged enough?”

“I’m not having this conversation,” she says.

She grabs her jersey but then Volkov’s there hugging her and pinning her arms at her side. 

“Dude,” she says.

“Any time, Gretzka,” he says as he steps back, joking but there’s something serious in his expression.

She makes a face but once everyone else has laughed and gone back to their own business, she nudges him. “Thanks.”

“I draw the line at napping.”

“That’s okay. I have Sasha to sleep with.”

Volkov stares at her for a long moment. “You’re fucking with me.”

Syd grins. “Am I?”

“You’re trouble now that you’re comfortable here.”

Sydney laughs and finishes changing for practice.

#

They significantly trimmed one of Syd’s drills until it’s barely useful at all. She wanted to work on multiple aspects at once, but Alekno narrowed it down to tracking their assignments and that’s good but it isn’t enough.

Everyone but her is happy after the drill. Sasha’s trying to squeeze half a water bottle down Rabinovich’s jersey and Tishov’s talking to Mikhailov and Volkov about playing wing versus center which he did a little of in the minors.

Alekno finds her as she’s staring at the ice, planning multi-pronged drills which will hit  _ all _ their weaknesses.

“Moderation,” her captain says.

“I don’t feel like I got better.”

“Not everyone’s brain works like yours. We isolated one thing and focused on it. Everyone got better today.”

Syd continues to look out at the ice. Yes, defense is good, but they didn’t practice board battles or how to clear the crease or what to do once their defense pays off and they’re in the offensive zone.

“Better doesn’t mean good enough.”

“Patience. It’s a process.”

But she wants to be the best  _ now _ .

“I’m not good at being patient.”

“I know.” He smiles and clasps her shoulder. “But you’ll get better. I heard Coach talking about ending us on the shootout. Do you want to plan moves?”

“I dunno, will you steal my best ones?”

Alekno laughs and she cracks a smile and lets him steer her away from her thoughts.

#

After the fifth captain talk in two weeks, Syd pulls Sasha aside.

“Is it just me or is Alekno chattier this season?”

They’re in for coffee, the rest of their team waiting at the terminal for their plane.

Sasha shrugs. “A little? It makes sense. There are things he wants to teach before he’s done.”

“Done?” Syd echoes.

Sasha’s expression is part sympathy, part exasperation. “Coach is shaving his minutes. Our line is playing more.”

Syd knew she was getting more ice time than last year, but she figured it’s because she’s back on the second line. And yeah, her numbers are higher than her rookie season but she’s not a rookie anymore so they should be.

“Oh,” she says. “He thinks I need to calm down.”

“He thinks I need to be more serious.” Sasha bumps her shoulder. “We make a good team.”

“We do,” she agrees instead of blurting out  _ please don’t leave me _ or something equally unfair. “Good balance.”

They order their coffee, and Syd doesn’t think anything of Sasha double fisting until he hands a cup to Alekno and says, “Syd thinks you look tired.”

Syd flips Sasha off. Alekno looks between them and shakes his head as if he doesn’t know what he did to deserve the two of them.

He keeps the coffee, though.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief Olympic interlude :) Apologies in advance, because this is the shortest of the remaining chapters. After this there's three left, about 20k because what is pacing?

They win and Syd continues to train.

They lose and she trains harder.

Alekno sits out a game, because his knee’s bothering him, and Syd plays the best game of her career. She misses Alekno on the bench, his steadying presence and his voice as she plans plays and puzzles over defense. But she excels in the number one role. She’s always played her biggest in big moments and this is no exception. Their captain, their first line center, is out and she steps up, backchecking and forechecking and making unbelievable passes to Sasha so he can put them up on the scoreboard.

“You looked good out there tonight,” one of the reporters says.

“I felt good.”

“Making a move for the number one spot?”

“Just keeping it warm until Alekno’s back in the line-up.”

#

Their captain returns but with another reduction in his minutes.

# 

Before Syd knows it, she’s leaving Moscow for Turin, She has to miss a couple games which she hates because every point matters, but she can’t deny that she’s excited to play for Team Canada.

It had been an honor to be named to the team, and she was worried that her choice to stay in Russia would impact her place, but it doesn’t look that way.  

She hugs Sasha in the airport, lingering maybe longer than she should. 

“Zhenya and I will see you soon,” he promises. “Try not to cry too much when we beat Canada.”

Sydney laughs and shoves his shoulder. “If your head gets any bigger, your helmet won’t fit.”

It’s his turn to laugh. He pulls her in one last time and brushes his lips over her cheek before she has to go.

#

Hayley Wickenheiser is  _ amazing _ . Syd stares and can’t make herself stop. She’s playing with a legend. She’s going to learn from a legend.

Ice time is strictly regulated so Syd can’t linger after their first practice, but there is a weight room so she shucks her pads but keeps her workout gear on. She switches her skates out for trainers and she’s double-knotting her laces when she feels a shadow.

She looks up to see Wicks towering above her in nothing but a towel.

“What’re you doing?” Wicks asks.

Syd has two professional years under her belt but her voice still comes out uncertain as she answers, “Weight room?”

“Tomorrow,” Wicks says. “I’ll even spot you. Today’s for team.”

Syd wants to protest, but she nods and unlaces her shoes.

Some of her frustration must show because Wicks laughs and says, “You’re intense, you know that?”

“My captain tells me to calm down like every day.”

“Maybe I should meet him and get some tips on Crosby-wrangling.”

“Sure,” Syd says, and Wicks isn’t the only one surprised by her easy acquiescence, “but I’m not translating.”

Wicks laughs, loud and bright. “I guess I’ll have to figure it out myself. Quick showers today, everyone. We’re hitting the dining hall then watching the Mighty Ducks.”

Someone, Piper, groans. “Again?”

“It’s a classic,” Wicks says.

The locker room descends into the usual chirping, and Syd relaxes. She can do this.

#

They pile into Wicks’s room, taking over the beds and couch and chairs. It feels like Shattuck again and Syd happily finds a place between Agosta and Ouellette.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a cuddler,” Ouellette says.

Syd  _ is _ taking up a lot of space but she isn’t the only one with hockey ass. Still. She presses closer to Agosta.

“There isn’t a lot of cuddling in the RSL,” Sydney says.

“Didn’t you stay in Russia to fuck Ovechkin?” Sunohara asks.

Syd’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t show her disappointment on her face. “I stayed to play hockey. Besides, no closed doors if I’m in a room with a teammate.”

“Seriously?” Agosta looks horrified. “You haven’t had sex since you went to Russia?”

“I thought we were watching a movie,” Syd says.

“This is more important,” Agosta says.

“It’s the Olympics, we’re getting you laid,” Hefford promises. “If Russians are your kryptonite then we can make it happen. We’ll judge you a bit but we’ll help.”

“I’m good but thank you.” Now Syd really draws in on herself. She doesn’t want them trying to set her up, but she doesn’t want to have to explain about Sasha and Zhenya.

“Hockey first,” Wicks decrees. “ _ Then _ we have some fun.”

#

Ouellette catches Syd in their way to dinner, slowing her pace enough to get them a pocket of privacy.

“If you don’t like boys, we can work with that,” Ouellette says. “And we can be discreet.”

Sydney stares at her for a long moment before, “Oh. Um, thank you. Boys are fine. I just like to keep my private life private.”

“Of course,” Ouellette says easily. “If you need some space, let me know. Things get cramped at the Olympics.”

A wide smile breaks out across her face. “ _ Olympics _ ,” she says.

Ouellette laughs and ruffles her hair. “Welcome to the Big Show, kid.”

#

Syd acquires an entire wardrobe consisting of Team Canada gear. There are maple leaves  _ everywhere _ . It’s awesome.

The team becomes a unit, walking together, eating together, practicing together, and even sleeping together when they’re worn out from the long days and time difference.

They even do some sightseeing around the city. Syd sticks close with Agosta, the other player her age, and Ouellette, who’s her roommate. She prefers to observe Wicks and Apps from a distance. They’re Canadian  _ legends _ and Syd’s afraid of saying something wrong or coming across as too much of a rookie.

It’s better on the ice. Here, Syd’s comfortable and she knows how to prove herself useful and part of a team. That isn’t to say it’s perfect.

The first time Agosta scores off a pass from Syd she exclaims, “Fucking right!” and doesn’t realize she spoke in Russian until everyone stares at her.

“Sorry,” Sydney says, in English this time.

“Make passes like that and I don’t care what fucking language you speak,” Agosta says.

Syd grins. “I can do that.”

#

The cafeterias have  _ everything _ . Syd clings to her Team Canada nutrition plan the first few meals, avoiding temptation. On the third day, though, she makes a detour and adds a few chebureki to her plate.

“Rebel,” Heff says as Sydney sits next to her.

Sydney laughs. “Maybe I was feeling homesick.”

Her side of the table falls suspiciously quiet.

“Home?” Agosta asks.

Sydney shrugs and tries not to feel as if she’s been caught. “I have been living there since I was sixteen.”

“Right, cause you’re so old now,” Apps says with a fond eye roll.

“Two and a half years,” Sydney says. “And I did just sign a five-year extension.”

“Cause you’re playing chicken with the NHL,” Agosta says. “Right?”

Sydney shrugs. “I like it there.” Then, remembering where she is and why, she’s quick to add, “Obviously, Canada is  _ home _ home. But the NHL wasn’t an option and by the time it was I had a team and friends and a life.”

“So you really might not go?” Agosta asks.

“I don’t know,” Syd says. “I’m definitely committed to Moscow this season. Next year is still up in the air.”

“But she knows what she’s doing for the next two weeks,” Ouellette says.

“Hell fucking yeah!”

#

A lot of Syd’s teammates play in college. She knows it’s the path that most women take. At the end of it there might be the CWHL. But hockey will be a hobby. They’ll have to work part-time jobs, squeezing in practices and time in the weight room around feeding their families and paying rent.

“It’s bullshit,” Ouellette says one night after the lights have been turned off. “We’ve been talking, us and the Americans and some of the Europeans. We want a league of our own.”

“Yeah?” Sydney asks.

“We have the athletes and the talent. And there’s interest, definitely in Canada, but hockey’s growing in the US.”

“I’d watch,” Syd says. She’s too far on her path to the NHL to switch, especially when this league is a hypothetical one, but she’ll support it in the ways she can.

“We’re having a meeting after the Olympics. Probably this summer once tempers and pride have had enough time to cool off. We’ll sit together and talk some more.”

“You’ll be making history.”

“If we do it. But yeah. You know what that’s like.”

“Good luck. I’ll be rooting for you.”

#

They’re in the cafeteria when the far doors open and men in Team Russia tracksuits file in. Syd can’t help the way she sits up straighter or the smile that stretches across her face when she sees Sasha and Zhenya among them.

Aware of the maple leaf on her shirt and the Russian eagle on theirs, she’s unsure of whether or not she should say hi.

Her dilemma’s solved when Sasha spots her and waves his arms in his traditional flight controller greeting.

“Oh goodness,” Sydney groans.

Ouellette and Agosta both laugh as Syd waves back. 

Sasha and Zhenya take it as an invitation to break off from their team. They get curious looks from both sides, but Syd decides she doesn’t care and stands so she can hug them both.

“Good flight?” she asks.

“They stuck me with  _ him _ ,” Zhenya says. “On the plane  _ and _ as a roommate.”

Syd laughs then laughs harder as Sasha tries to pout. 

“It’s like he doesn’t love me,” Sasha says. “What happened to the bonds of nationalism?”

Zhenya rolls his eyes. “You’ve played well.”

“It’s a good team,” Syd says.

“Maybe, but you’re still the best.”

Syd rolls her eyes. “I’m playing with  _ Hayley Wickenheiser _ .”

“Hey, I heard my name!” Wicks says.

Syd turns to see her entire team watching her as if she’s high quality entertainment. “Um, just telling them about the team. They say hi. Their flight was good.”

“Riveting,” Ouellette deadpans.

It’s enough to make her team laugh and turn back to their food.

“Maybe we can see each other later?” Syd asks Zhenya. “Unless you’re settling in or doing team stuff. We’ve done that already, obviously, but--”

Sasha cuts her off with a finger to her lips. “We’ve missed you too.”

“Hey!” Likov barks. He’s a bear of a man, one of the Kazan players who actually played last season despite the influx of NHLers. He’s big and he’s tough and he doesn’t like Sydney. “She’s not your teammate right now.”

“The Olympics are about international cooperation,” Sasha says, because he’s an instigator at heart.

Likov narrows his eyes.

“Later,” Syd tells Sasha and Zhenya. “You should go. Be with your team.”

“Listen to your girlfriend,” Likov sneers.

Syd had been content to ignore him, but now her gaze snaps to him, expression hard. “It’s too bad they didn’t let me play on the men’s team. I’d enjoy beating you at every level.”

Likov takes a menacing step forward. “Who knocked you out of the playoffs last season?”

“You still weren’t good enough to win the whole thing.” Syd’s smile sharpens. “Which one of us has a Cup?”

“Bitch.”

She smiles, sweet but ready to fight if she has to.

Wicks steps up to Sydney. “Finish your dinner. You can socialize later.”

“Yeah, listen to your mom,” Likov sneers.

Syd bristles. Next time she sees him on the ice she’s going to humiliate him so badly that he’ll wish he never picked up a hockey stick.

Sasha taps her shoulder and Zhenya tugs on her braid before they rejoin their team. Syd sits back down with her team and ignores all the stares.

“You good?” Wicks asks. “That last guy didn’t seem very friendly.”

“He doesn’t like me.” Syd shrugs and loads up her fork. “Men don’t like losing to girls.”

#

It takes another win before she has a chance to see them without an audience. She had a solid game and went to dinner with her parents before taking a detour on the way back to the Olympic Village.

They’re loitering at a public park near the village, and she hugs them as soon as she’s in reach. She looks around before sneaking a kiss.

“Good game,” Zhenya tells her.

“Your turn now.”

“Will you watch?” Sasha asks.

“We have practice, but I’ll watch as much as I can.”

“At least a period or this one won’t score,” Sasha says. “Everyone knows he shows off when you’re in the stands.”

“Hey,” Zhenya protests but he doesn’t deny it.

Sydney’s thinking about trying for another kiss when they’re approached by a cluster of people in Swedish tracksuits.

They chat and exchange autographs and well wishes. When they leave, a group of Slovaks take their place and Syd says goodbye to what little privacy they had.

“I thought the Olympics was sex everywhere,” she grumbles on the way back to the Village.

Zhenya laughs. “Only if you don’t care who sees.”

“Win,” Sasha tells her. “We’ll smuggle you out of the after party.”

“Promise?”

Sasha grins. “Promise.”

#

They win and win then they’re facing Team USA for the gold medal. Her parents and Taylor are somewhere in the stands watching. Brisson too. Lemieux has wished her luck. Sasha and Zhenya are in the athlete section with her Dynamo teammates that came to the Olympics.

Everyone she cares about is watching.

Jack and Elizabeth have each sent an email with a picture of their TV.

Now all she has to do is win a gold medal.

She tamps down on her hysterical laughter. She needs to be calm. Composed. 

Ouellette taps her shoulder and Syd nearly jumps out of her skin. 

“It’ll be alright, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Syd grumbles. 

Ouellette laughs. “It’s just hockey. You’re good at that.”

It’s Wicks who grabs Syd on the way up to the ice. “It’s Olympic hockey. The stage doesn’t get bigger than this. You’re ready for it.”

She always excels when the stakes are high, and Wicks is right, the Olympics are as big as it gets. There’s a whole nation who wants her to bring home gold.

They can do it.

#

They do.

It’s a Canadian onslaught from the beginning, and they never let up.

When the buzzer sounds on a 5-1 win, Syd tosses her gloves and her stick and grabs the person nearest her. Agosta knocks her helmet off, grabs her face, and kisses her.

Syd laughs, happiness bubbling up inside her like the champagne they’ll spray the locker room with later. They pile onto the ice, surrounding the vets who Coach gave the last shift to. There’s more kisses and hugs and screaming until Syd’s ears ring.

The anthem soothes her ears then they pour into the locker room and everything is a blur. Moments stand out, the weight of the medal, the pop of the first champagne bottle. Taylor’s shrieks and her parents pride.

At some point the party moves out of the locker room. She loses her uniform but keeps her medal. They’re at a bar and the men’s team is there.

“That’s how it’s fucking done,” Apps says.

There’s an edge to her voice as if she’s remembering all the broadcasters who accused her of being too old to win. On the men’s side, age translates to experience. On the women’s side, it’s supposedly a liability.

But Apps showed them.

Gold fucking medal.

Syd pushes a shot into Apps’s hand because no one should be sad right now. “Drink.”

Apps stares at the shot. “Where did you get this? Are we corrupting the youth?”

“I play in Russia. I know how to party.” Syd snatches another shot for herself. When Apps still hesitates, Syd brings out the big guns. “It was an honor to play with you,” she begins.

That’s as far as she gets before Iginla laughs and Apps claps a hand over her mouth. “Point made. I’m drinking.”

Syd makes sure to find Apps later. “I meant it,” she says. “It was an honor to represent Canada with you.”

Apps smiles at her. “Right back at you, kid.”

#

Syd is unsteady on her feet when she spies Sasha and Zhenya. They stand out, both because they’re in plain clothes rather than vibrant Canadian red and they’re sober.

Syd’s entire face lights up in a smile. 

_ Gold medal sex. _

She’s halfway to them when she realizes she probably can’t just vanish. She scans the room for a non-judgmental teammate.

Ouellette meets her gaze and raises her eyebrows so Syd weaves through the crowd until she reaches her.

“I’m headed out,” Syd says. She won’t be the first. The party is down to the single players who haven’t found a hook-up yet and a couple token responsible teammates. She’s not sure which Ouellette is.

Ouellette looks over at where Sasha and Zhenya are trying to be inconspicuous. 

“It’s the Olympics,” Syd defends. “Anything can happen and no one judges.”

Ouellette looks amused like she knows this won’t be the first time she’s gone home with Sasha and Zhenya. Part of her wonders if she should be more careful but Ouellette claps her on the shoulder, knocking the thought out of her head.

“Have fun. Don’t miss media tomorrow.”

Syd grins and lets Sasha and Zhenya lead her away.

#

It takes a lot of make-up for Syd to be presentable at their media scrum. Fortunately, she isn’t the only one though a lot of them are covering up hangovers and not giant hickeys.

When Agosta first saw her this morning she asked if Sydney had been mauled by a bear. Then she offered her foundation.

They stand in front of a crowd of reporters in their tracksuits with their medals around their necks, trying not to squint at the bright lights.

“This was a good warm-up,” one of the reporters says. “Now we’re ready for the men.”

Syd’s eyes flash dangerously and she steps up to field the question, but Wicks beats her to it, answering far more diplomatically than Syd would have.

#

The men don’t even compete for a medal.

Syd’s glad to escape to Russia where they’re too busy celebrating bronze to ask her about Canada’s failure.


	21. Chapter 21

After the Olympics, it’s a sprint for the playoffs.

Syd’s energized by the gold medal, and it comes at a good time because Coach cuts back on Alekno’s shifts and gives the extra time to Sydney. He says it’s to maximize Alekno’s impact when he’s on the ice, but she sees the underlying truth. Alekno is retiring, if not after this season then the next one. 

She decides he’s lifting the Cup of Russia one last time before he’s done. 

They win, and Syd learns how to play with not just Sasha and Volkov on her wings but also Berezhko and Mikhailov.

They lose and she sits tall in her stall and answers every question she’s asked, shouldering the responsibility for the losses so her teammates don’t have to.

Sasha’s there on the other side of the locker room, doing the same thing and forcing the reporters to choose between them. Divide and conquer.

On the good nights, the ones where they win, she and Sasha compete for extras in their scrums. She pulls Volkov in to talk up his equalizing goal and Sasha snags Vasilev and highlights his saves. She talks about Sokolov’s backcheck and Sasha talks about the youth on the team and how it’s fueling them all.

On the rarest of occasions, they’ll do a joint interview. He talks up her game and she talks up his. One time, Volkov gets so tired of it, he dumps a bucket of ice water on their heads.

One day, after an important win against St. Petersburg, Syd and Sasha go out to lunch. Last night they celebrated with the team, shots and dancing, but today is for them.

“When Alekno retires, the C is yours,” Syd says.

“Unless we’re in the NHL.”

“We’ll be here next year,” Syd says.  _ And if they give you the C then it will only help our case. _ “But…”

Sasha looks up at her.

“Never mind. We can talk about it this summer.”  _ After this season and when Zhenya is with us. _

“Syd.”

She sighs. “I don’t--this is what I want with Zhenya. With both of you. And I want the NHL even though it doesn’t really want me. I don’t think I can stay here forever. Even if Mario can’t work his magic.”

She hates that choosing between the RSL and the NHL now feels like choosing between Sasha and Zhenya. There are other factors that go into it, but it doesn’t seem that way. And whatever choice she makes, she’s without one of them. Sometimes she wonders what it’s like for Zhenya, constantly on his own. She’s still too much of a coward to ask him about it. 

“This is a stupid time to talk about it,” she says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. We’re knocking on the playoffs. We should be focused.”

“We can talk about it,” Sasha says. “It’s better than you worrying on your own.” He offers up a teasing smile. “So, do we need to win this year?”

“We need to win every year,” she says. “But maybe after next year. It’s not Mario’s fault the league is the way it is. And the Penguins--I don’t want them to fold.”

“Two more playoffs, two more Cups. Hat trick of winning.”

Syd laughs, feeling better now that they’ve talked and have a plan. “We’ll need to shore up our defense, then.”

“Or just score more goals.”

Sydney laughs again.

#

They’re up against Ak Bars Kazan in the first round.

“They’re nothing without half the NHL glutting their roster,” Grankin says.

“Someone should tell Likov that,” Sydney says.

Sasha eyes her from across the locker room. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Me?” She covers her heart with her hand. “Sasha, how could you think this of me? I clearly said  _ someone _ .”

“What am I missing?” Volkov asks, looking between them.

“Likov and I have some unfinished business,” Sydney says.

#

He rams her into the boards on the opening shift and there’s a moment of silence as Sydney rights herself and the crowd draws a deep breath. Then they jeer and whistle and boo, the hatred of an entire stadium pouring down on one person.

Likov looks stunned as if he was the one knocked into the boards. 

“You’re outnumbered,” she tells him.

#

Two shifts later, Volkov battles against the boards with Likov and ‘accidentally’ rams his stick into his gut. Likov grunts and recoils. Volkov takes advantage and works the puck free and passes it back to Syd.

She spins around a defender and makes a no-look behind-the-back pass. She turns in time to see Sasha’s shot hit the back of the net. 

She’s the first to reach him, throwing her arms around him.

“See,” he says. “More goals.”

#

The next shift, Syd chases Likov down to cut off his breakaway. Even with the bigger ice, she isn’t sure she’ll be able to close the gap. She skates harder, her quads burning, and pokes the puck off his stick. 

It trickles harmlessly to Vasilev who scoops it up in his glove. 

On the bench, still trying to catch her breath, she turns to Sasha. “Defense.”

He grins. “We make a good team.”

#

They win Game 1 then cruise to an easy Game 2 victory. 

Game 3 is their first away game, and they come out sluggish and never connect. 

It’s a 0-4 loss that leaves the locker room silent afterwards. 

Once the media has come and gone, Syd sits in her stall and puts her head in her hands. They didn’t just lose tonight. That was  _ humiliating _ , the kind of loss that can turn a series around.

But she isn’t  _ broken _ . She’s pissed off, and shame curdles her stomach, but she isn’t about to roll over in the next two games.

“We’re better than that,” she finally says. No one looks up from their private musings. “It was a shitty game, but we put it behind us, and play better in two days.”

“They’re cocky now,” Alekno says. He doesn’t stand up or raise his voice but everyone still turns to him. “They believe they can build off this and win the series. We don’t fucking let them.”

No one cheers, they aren’t ready for a rallying cry yet, but Volkov nudges her knee with his. Across the room, Mikhailov nods. Rabinovich and Tikov look less like they’re about to fly apart at the seams.

The locker room takes a collective breath.

#

Syd’s braced for a brutal practice, but Coach surprises her. 

“There’s nothing to learn from last night. It was a clusterfuck, and everyone here knows it. We’re focusing on our strengths and our game. Bring those tomorrow, and we’ll advance to the next round.”

_ Play good hockey _ , Syd translates. She can do that.

#

The crowd is racuous from warm-ups.

They cheer their own team and jeer Dynamo.

Every time Syd skates near the boards, people pound on the glass. She doesn’t give them the satisfaction of her attention. Let them swear and hold up signs. They aren’t worth her time.

She knocks shoulders with Sasha.

He tugs on her braid and grins. “Ready?”

“Are  _ you _ ready? I’m just the playmaker.”

“Just.” He scoffs, then grows serious. “Find me. Tonight, I score.”

#

She finds him on the first shift, a pass that she threads through two sets of legs and an outstretched stick.

Sasha is ready.

The goalie isn’t.

1-0.

Sasha roars and pounds on the glass. The fans pound back, hurling words that Syd can’t hear as she and her teammates swoop in and drown them out.

“Fucking right!” Volkov shouts.

Syd grabs Sasha’s chin and stares him down. “Again.”

His lips pull back in a smile.

#

They’re hemmed in their own zone on the next shift, but they play just as hard. Grankin takes a shot off the shoulder and Syd fights along the boards and Sokolov clears out the crease.

Vasilev makes two incredible saves before finally dropping his body on the puck for a whistle.

Syd skates back to the bench and falls into the first open spot she finds.

“Good work,” Coach says.

She pants and nods.

Rabinovich hands her a water bottle.

#

Despite two power plays apiece, the period ends 1-0. It’s undoubtedly a tighter game than the last one. If they keep playing like this then they can win. She’d like another goal, because one goal leads aren’t safe. A flukey bounce, a bullshit penalty, and the game’s tied. A two goal lead is better.

Sasha must agree with her, because he bombards the net to start the second period. She feeds him the puck and he shoots and shoots, but Ruslin is a fucking wall.

Sasha spends a whole two minutes on the power play, but he can never get set up the way he likes.

Midway through the second, Syd sets up a beauty of a shot for Sasha. He shoots, puck rocketing through Likov’s legs before it hits an errant stick. Sasha follows his shot, scoops up the rebound, and shoots again. This time it’s Ruslin who stops him, but he isn’t able to cover the puck. Now on Ruslin’s doorstep, Sasha whacks at the puck over and over until it squeaks through Ruslin’s legs and in. 

The light flashes and Sasha throws his arms up in the air. He narrowly misses clocking Likov in the face with his stick and the captain shoves him away from the goal.

Too little too late, Syd thinks as she skates into Sasha’s open arms. She pounds her fist on his chest. “Way to stick with it.”

“Our game,” he says, and she believes him.

#

They’re building towards something, and everyone in the building knows it. It’s there when the crowd grows quiet, tense, every time Sasha has the puck. It’s there in the muted groans every time a Kazan rush ends in another save for Vasilev. It’s there in the locker room at intermission, the conversation light as Coach only tweaks their game.

“What you’re doing is working,” he says. “Stick with it.”

#

Alekno opens the period by losing the faceoff to Likov. 

Likov lunges forward, knocking the puck to one of his wingers and they’re off. Alekno’s caught flat-footed and Mikhailov’s too slow, and three Ak Bars players crash Vasilev’s net.

He stands tall, stopping the initial shot then Likov’s second attempt. The crowd is revitalized as Vasilev finally manages to cover the puck. The opposing team is too. They come out hard every shift, and Syd’s team is forced to play defense over and over again.

She looks at the clock after each shift. Right now, it’s their greatest ally, but it ticks down too damn slowly.

There’s 6:27 left on the clock when they’re in their own end. Again.

Syd battles behind the net for the puck. If she can get it to Sasha then they might manage an odd-man rush. At the very least they can get Vasilev a breather. 

She shoves back against Likov and nudges the puck to her skate. She kicks it out as Likov shoves her into the boards. She elbows him in the gut and twists to see Volkov’s breakout pass ricochet off Grankin’s skate and--

Into the net.

Fuck.

Likov laughs, low and mean. “Thanks,” he says.

She almost punches him. She draws her arm back, and the stadium swells with anticipation.

She’d like to say that her rational self prevails, but the only reason she doesn’t take a penalty is because Sasha catches her wrist. 

“He’s not worth it,” Sasha says.

“That hurts my feelings,” Likov tells him. He laughs again before skating off to join his team.

“We’re winning this,” Sydney says.

“I know. Find me on the ice again. I’ll score this time.”

#

Rabinovich takes a dumb penalty.

Kazan scores on the power play.

2-2 and the building erupts as if they’ve just won the series.

The game is at a tipping point. Another penalty, another unlucky bounce, even a single bad play and their team’s spirit will be crushed..

Syd grabs Sasha’s chin strap. “Be ready.”

She sees her own determination reflected in Sasha’s gaze. “I am.”

“Nothing fancy,” Coach tells them as he sends them over the boards. 

Syd skates up to the faceoff dot. Fluke goals and shitty calls and a game that’s slipping away from her. She knows one thing she can count on.

She wins the faceoff then demands the puck back.

She skates into the zone and draws two players and half of the goalie’s attention to her. She skates behind the net then in front of it, weaving through players. Coach yells at her to pass from the bench. She circles again, waiting.

There are two players on her, one in her shooting lane. The other players aren’t as tight on their assignments as they should be. She fakes a pass to Grankin. When everyone falls for it, she slaps a cross-ice pass to Sasha.

He rifles a shot from the dot, and Ruslin doesn’t even move. 

Syd points to Sasha, unable to move either.

He’s the one to skate into her, lifting her off her skates.

“I knew you’d do it!” She shouts. “Fucking unstoppable!”

He slams her into the boards and the rest of their linemates crash into them, yelling and cheering and slapping each other’s shoulders and helmets and asses.

The whole bench is animated as they skate through the celebration line, and Syd knows that was the moment. The game is theirs now.

Kazan knows it too.

All the momentum they were building was snuffed out with Sasha’s hat trick. 

The fans are silent.

Dynamo Moscow wins 3-2 and advances to the next round. 

#

Sasha, rightly so, is the center of the media’s attention. He scored all three goals and, just as important, lifted the team up on his shoulders when they faltered.

She catches Alekno watching his scrum, and sees her own thoughts reflected on his face.  _ Sasha will make a great captain _ .

Her phone buzzes with a text from Zhenya,  _ congratulate him for me _ . She grins and tucks her phone away before making herself at home in her stall.

“The bus is open,” Volkov says. 

Her gaze flicks to Sasha, stripping down to shower. It’s maybe a second, but Volkov says “Ah,” and doesn’t push her again.

Somehow, the whole locker room clears out while Sasha’s in the shower, and no one gives her a hard time about staying. She’s not sure whether to be grateful or on guard.

She settles on grateful as Sasha emerges from the shower, his hair dripping wet, and a towel loosely tucked around his waist.

“Hey,” she says.

He looks around the empty locker room. “Hey?”

She grins and strides up to him. She kisses him, and squeezes his ass, then twists away when he tries to tug her closer.

“That’s from Zhenya,” she says.

He eyes the buttons on her dress shirt as if he’s calculating how long it would take to rip them off. “And from you?”

She grins and slings her bag over her shoulder. “Get me alone when we land and you’ll find out.”

“Syd.”

She blows him a kiss then slips out of the locker room. The bus is mostly full, everyone but Sasha on board now.

“Where’s the man of the hour?” Sokolov asks.

“You think I waited for him to get out of the shower?” Syd asks. 

“Is this a trick question?” Rabinovich asks.

Syd drops into the empty seat next to Volkov.

“The front of your suit is wet,” he says.

“Is it?” she asks blandly.

She can’t quite keep the sparkle out of her eyes. 

Volkov groans and fishes his headphones out of his bag.

#

She doesn’t get her moment alone with Sasha after landing in Moscow. They disembark with their teammates then cram into cars with the other players who stay in the dorms. From there, it’s time for bed, and Syd can’t lure him out from Berezhko’s watchful eye.

“Put it on my tab,” she murmurs. “Collect this summer.”

“Tease.”

She laughs and slaps his ass. Then, loud enough for their teammates to hear, “Good game.”

“Good passing.”

“No,” Berezhko says. “If you start this, you’ll never stop.”

He pulls Sasha into their room as Syd laughs.

#

They sweep their next series. 

Zhenya and his team fall to SKA St. Petersburg.

A small part of Syd is glad that they won’t face Zhenya in the finals. It’s easier to review game tape on St. Petersburg and plan to shut them down. If she ever faced Zhenya in the finals, she would do it well, and she’d win, but it would be hard.

She wants to play  _ with _ him, not against him.

But first, she and Sasha have a Cup to win.

#

They drop the first game against an energized St. Petersburg crowd. 

They drop the second as well, putting themselves on the brink of elimination. 

Sasha hasn’t scored a goal yet in the series, and he didn’t even record a shot in the final two periods of the last game.

“Fix him,” Volkov says as if she’s some kind of Ovechkin whisperer.

She arches her eyebrows.

“Fix him or we’re done.”

And, well, she can’t exactly argue with that.

She takes him to Basha’s because they need to get out of the dorms, and she knows Basha won’t let anyone bother them. They sit at a little table in the back, their knees knocking together.

Sasha’s been saying the right things to the media and smiling for the team, but here with just the two of them, he doesn’t have to try. He looks  _ tired _ . Her fingers itch to run through his hair and smooth away his frown but they don’t have quite that much privacy.

“I’m not hurt,” Sasha says. “I almost wish I was. Then I’d have a reason for sucking.”

Syd takes a sip of her water, patient. She doesn’t agree with him, but she waits to hear what else has been building. It’s like poison, and he needs to bleed it out.

“It’s a waste for me to shoot when I won’t score. I--” he groans and tugs on his hair. “I need to be better than this.”

“Then focus on your defense. You aren’t happy with your offense? Backcheck, battle for loose pucks. Keep  _ them _ from scoring. You’ve carried our team this far. Let the rest of us score goals.” 

“I should do everything,” he grumbles then ducks his head as if he knows how ridiculous he sounds.

“Together, we do everything,” Syd says. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”

He nods, but like they’re in a meeting with Coach it’s what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t believe her. Not yet.

She reaches across the table to clasp his hand. “I’m here. Let me help.”

#

She wishes she could say she scores on the opening shift. 

She doesn’t even score on her first pass from Sasha.

His shoulders sag on the bench as if carrying too much weight. 

“Trust me,” she remind him.

At the end of the first period, it’s 0-0.

Most of the team seems relieved that they’re not behind. There’s no fire to  _ win _ , just a desperate scramble to keep from losing. It’s a strategy that will work until St. Petersburg scores their first goal. But that goal will break them.

Syd needs to turn things around before then .

She lingers by the bench as her team troops down to the locker room. She offers Coach a bright smile when he spots her.

“I have an idea.”

“Walk with me,” he says.

She waits until they’re in the tunnel to say, “Put Rabinovich and Tikov on my wings. I’m steady enough on defense to make up for their deficiencies there and on offense no one can touch us.”

“Can you score?”

Syd grins. “How many goals do you want?”

“If I don’t like it then I’m changing it.”

“Deal.”

#

Syd takes the opening faceoff of the second period with Rabinovich on one wing and Tikov on the other. She wins the faceoff and pushes forward, blowing past the other center.

Rabinovich passes her the puck, and she carries it into the zone. Her wingers trail her then fan out so the defense has to choose who they’ll cover.

They pass until the St. Petersburg crowd is restless and the team is dizzy. That’s when Syd puts the puck right on Rabinovich’s tape. He doesn’t overthink, just shoots, and the puck sails over the goalie’s shoulder.

1-0.

Syd slams into Rabinovich, grabbing his head between her gloves and smacking a kiss to his helmet.

“All fucking game,” she tells him.

He grins at her, bright and happy.

#

Three shifts later, St. Petersburg scores. 

Syd keeps her head held high. She nudges her linemates. “This isn’t over.”

“Just means we get to score again,” Rabinovich says. “Tiki’s turn.”

It’s Syd who takes the initial shot and Tikov who bangs it home. 

2-1.

“Now we hold the line,” Syd says. She looks down the bench to where Alekno sits. He meets her gaze and nods.

#

It’s a physical, brutal second half of the game, but they hold the fucking line.

The game ends 2-1, and they live to play another game.

#

Syd ices what feels like her entire body that night.

“It would’ve been easier to take an ice bath,” Berezhko says. 

Syd makes a face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be setting a good example for the kids?”

“Ice baths leave me too cold to sleep, and you won’t let Sasha sleep with me.”

Berezhko chokes then flushes bright red. “You do this on purpose.”

“You make it too easy.”

#

She starts Game 4 with Tikov and Rabinovich on her wings. There’s still the underlying knowledge that this is an elimination game but instead of making everyone tight with tension, they all rise to the challenge.

Last game gave their confidence back and tonight they’re flying.

Alekno has found a fresh set of legs, keeping up with St. Petersburg and even sparking a breakaway with Sasha. St. Petersburg’s goalie bobbles the shot but manages to freeze the puck before Alekno can poke it over the goal line.

“Your turn,” Alekno tells Syd. “Let’s see what you and the kids can do.”

Tikov’s a good player, young and creative, but sometimes  _ too _ creative. He makes blind passes that the opposition doesn’t expect but neither does his own team. When he deviates from the game plan, his linemates don’t react and it leaves holes.

Syd can keep up.

The first time Tikov throws a blind pass from behind the net, she pounces on it before St. Petersburg can. She flips the puck to Grankin to start their cycle. They end the shift with three shots on goal. It’s only a matter of time before they score and the whole stadium knows it.

Two shifts later, Syd digs the puck out of the corner and passes up to Tikov. He’s knocked off the puck, but she barrels over the defender and springs the puck for a breakaway.

It’s been a long shift and all she wants is to switch out for Khtey. 

“Skate, skate!” Sasha shouts from the bench.

Syd skates.

One powerful stride then another as she chases Tikov. He slows down as he closes in on the goalie so he doesn’t lose control of the puck. He makes a move then another. He  _ passes _ . It’s a good thing the goalie was fully committed to Tikov because Syd has no room to work with. 

She corrals the puck into the open net then crashes into the boards at full speed.

“Goal!” Tikov shouts.

He helps her to her feet. She doesn’t hurt yet but she knows she will later. 

“You didn’t shoot,” she says.

“I knew you’d put it home,” he says then shouts as Rabinovich joins them.

#

Sasha assists on Alekno’s power play goal which stands as the game winner after a late tally by St. Petersburg.

The series is tied. 

It’s win or go home for them both now.

#

Syd takes an ice bath that night.

And when she gets to the dorms, stiff and cold, she finds her team crowded into the rec room. They’re all there, because playoffs mean they’re on lockdown.

Tikov wiggles until there’s space for her between him and Sasha. 

She gladly fits into the space then sticks her cold hands up Sasha’s shirt. He yelps and elbows Volkov which makes them both glare at her.

“Could’ve put them down your pants instead,” Syd says.

Sasha winces and stops trying to slap her hands away.

She warms up quickly, but she doesn’t pull her hands back. Instead, she wraps her arms more firmly and rests her head on his shoulder.

“No sleeping,” Sasha says.

She’s tired from the game and drowsy from being too cold and now being pleasantly warm. It’s like when she was a kid and spend hours outside during the winter. As soon as her mom dragged her inside, Syd would take a shower as hot as she could stand it then wrap up in as many blankets as she could. She doesn’t know how many times she fell asleep on the couch, worn out from a day in the cold and cocooned in blankets.

“Little sleep,” she says, already crashing. “Good game tonight.”

There’s a show on the TV and her teammates talk around her and she drifts until Sasha shakes her shoulder.

“Bed,” he says.

“Mmm,” she agrees, and tries to burrow closer.

“Good game tonight, Gretzka,” Volkov tells her. He stands up and cracks his neck as he stretches.

Alekno passes out protein bars and makes everyone eat one before they can head upstairs.

Syd leans on Sasha the whole way to her room. Each step feels like a monumental effort. She wonders if this is what it’s like to be an astronaut.

“Good game,” Sasha says, echoing Volkov’s earlier statement. 

“You too.” She catches his chin when he tries to turn away. “When we needed you, you were there. We’ll need you next game too.”

“Last one,” Sasha says. 

“Hold nothing back.” Syd’s little pep talk is interrupted by a big yawn. 

Hopefully what she has left to give will be enough.

#

Both sides are beat up after a whole regular season and grueling playoffs. This final game comes down to who can hold out the longest, but Syd has never met a challenge she didn’t rise to. Moscow is winning this game. They’re giving Alekno the send-off he deserves and they’re the bringing the Cup of Russia home for the second time in three years.

Syd’s slammed into the boards on her first shift. It wakes up every little ache and pain, leaving her exhausted as if it’s the end of the game and not the beginning.

She’s slow recovering, misses her assignment, and only Vasilev’s quick reflexes keep the game tied at zero.

She spends the time between each shift catching her breath and trying to focus on the game rather than the twinge in her shoulder or the ache in her chest. There are holes they can exploit in St. Petersburg game, but there are also holes in their own game they need to protect better.

#

After first intermission, Coach shortens everyone’s shifts. He wants them playing as fresh as possible which means quick bursts of speed then rest.

It’s not enough time.

Syd can never find a rhythm, too busy getting on the ice or off it to actually play. The only time she has an extended shift is when she’s trapped in her own zone and scrambling to keep the puck out of her net.

Midway through the period, Syd’s grinding her teeth into her mouth guard every time she’s on the bench. They’ve survived two penalty kills and a period and a half but that’s all they’re doing, surviving. They can’t win like this.

They finally draw a penalty with a minute left in the period. If they can end the second with a goal then that will give them the momentum swing they need to win the game.

She knows it. Her team knows it. St. Petersburg knows it. 

Coach sends Syd and Sasha over the boards. They know what they need to do.

As much as St. Petersburg might like to, they can’t keep a defender stuck to Sasha’s side for the whole PK. They can keep one guy cheated, but Syd weaves through the coverage, making passes and demanding the puck back until she sees a split second opening. She slings the puck to Sasha who winds up, fires, and--

Misses.

The puck cracks against the glass with enough force that it rebounds out of the zone and all the way down to Vasilev. 

The home crowd cheers as Syd chases the puck down so they can try again. She keeps her head up as she carries the puck back into the zone. Sasha’s shoulders are set, determined, rather than slumped after the miss.

It’s why she passes to him right away.

The PKers haven’t had time to settle yet, but they react the moment they realize that Sasha has the puck. Two players go down to block it. It misses the first player but cracks off the second’s skate. 

The rebound comes to Syd and she slaps the puck on net. The goalie scoops it up, and there’s time for one more faceoff. 

Syd stays out and loses the faceoff and just like that the period is over. She watches Krushkin limp down the St. Petersburg tunnel before heading to her own bench. They troop down to the locker room not defeated, but not inspired either.

“They’re down to five defensemen,” Sydney says. “Wear them down and we’ll get the openings we need.”

“Ruthless,” Volkov says, approving.

Syd nods then, once Coach has everyone’s attention, rubs her aching shoulder.

#

Sasha lingers in the locker room so that he can walk with Syd back to ice level.

“Find me,” he says.

“I will,” she promises.

#

She takes the opening faceoff and wins it back to Rabinovich. He carries the puck into the zone and almost loses it when Sishkinin challenges him. Rabinovich makes a blind, panicked pass that Syd manages to corral, but she takes a hit for her trouble. She passes to Sokolov, and they settle into their cycle. 

Pass-skate-pass-skate.

Syd circles the net, drawing St. Petersburg out of their defensive formation. She drives at the net and they collapse, opening up a passing lane to Sasha. 

Backhand pass then she screens the goalie and this time Sasha doesn’t miss.

1-0.

Syd pushes her way past the St. Petersburg players, reaching Sasha a second behind Sokolov. He opens his arms wider to pull her in.

“I found you,” she says.

He smacks a kiss to the top of her helmet, and she laughs as Sokolov playfully pushes them apart.

“Focus,” Coach says, expression stern, as they return to the bench.

Syd takes the joy from the goal and tucks it deep inside where it will fuel her for the next twenty minutes. When her quads burn and she can’t seem to catch her breath, she remembers the goal and plays hard for the next one. 

Coach double shifts her, putting her out with Sasha every couple shifts. They don’t score again, but they keep up a steady offensive pressure that keeps St. Petersburg from building any meaningful momentum.

As the clock ticks down, St. Petersburg takes more chances. Their d-men jump up on the rush and pinch to keep the puck in. It’s Moscow’s turn to play scrambled defense, but Vasilev stands tall against the onslaught on his net. 

The ten minute mark ticks by.

Then fifteen.

The crowd grows louder as if they can will their team into scoring.

With 1:27 left on the clock, Vasilev freezes the puck, and St. Petersburg pulls their goalie. Coach looks up and down his bench.

“Crosby, Alekno, and Volkov,” he says. Then, “Grankin and Sokolov. Clear the zone and change. Khtey, Berezhko, and Mikhailov, be ready.”

Syd goes over the boards with her captain. A tiny part of her wonders if this will be the last time. 

_ Better make it a good shift then _ .

Alekno wins the faceoff, but Volkov’s breakout pass is knocked down by St. Petersburg. Syd falls into her defensive zone, stick on the ice and eyes on the puck. When the pass comes near her, she skates out to challenge. Another pass and she has to challenge that now. She skates in circles, always a step behind. 

Finally, there’s a shot. Volkov blocks it and Grankin slaps the puck out of their zone. Too much on it and it’s an icing. 

Volkov tries to skate off the bruise that’s no doubt forming on his thigh. 

Syd takes a few deep breaths but it isn’t enough. 

They line up for the faceoff.

Alekno gets himself tossed and buys them another few seconds to breathe. 

Syd takes his place. She ties up with the St. Petersburg center. She tries to kick the puck out to Volkov but loses her balance. She takes the other center down with her and they land in a tangle of limbs. The puck is somewhere under them, and they’re jabbed by sticks as each team tries to dig the puck out.

Finally, it pops free and Sokolov flings the puck out of their zone for another icing.

Alekno helps Syd to her skates. 

“Maybe you should take this one,” she says.

“Ten less seconds on the clock,” he points out.

She takes the faceoff and wins this one. Alekno passes to Grankin who’s knocked off the puck.

The crowd swells with excitement as their team sets up their cycle again. Syd can barely hear her teammates on the ice with her. There’s too many people on the ice, everything crowded. Volkov blocks another shot and she’s buying him as many drinks as he wants after this game. For now, though, she’ll get him the change he deserves.

She scoops up the loose puck and puts on a burst of speed. She blows past two defenders. The third tries to knock her off the puck, but she stays on her skates.

A glance over her shoulder shows Sokolov helping Volkov to the bench amd Alekno trailing her up the ice.

She should dump and change but there’s an empty net and--

“Skate, skate!” Sasha shouts, his voice cutting through the crowd.

She crosses the blue line and passes to Alekno. He taps the puck into the empty net. 

The stadium falls silent. 

Syd finds another bit of energy as she flings herself at her captain. He wobbles but then Khtey is there to stabilize them. 

There’s 0:16 left on the clock and they’re up by two.

This game is theirs.

Coach uses his timeout and the stadium boos.

He draws up a play then puts Alekno back on the ice. 

“Bring us home,” Coach says as he sends him over the boards.

Syd feels tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. She leans against Sasha as Alekno skates up to the faceoff dot. She sucks in a breath as the official drops the puck and doesn’t breathe again until the time runs out.

They all jump to their feet and throw their helmets and gloves and sticks. 

She hugs everyone in reach.

Sasha’s shouting and Rabinovich is yelling. Everything is noise and movement.

They crash into Alekno first then Vasilev. She ruffles Tikov’s hair and kisses Sasha’s cheek and gets kissed by Berezhko.

Relief and joy and giddy excitement battle for control, and, confused, her body can’t do anything but shake. A few tears slip out, but no one else is dry-eyed.

She grabs Sasha, turning his face towards hers. “We did it!”

“We did!”

He pulls her into a hug, and she tucks her face against his neck even though it’s sweaty and gross.

For the second time in three years, they’re champions.


	22. Chapter 22

Four days later, when Sasha is mostly sober, Team Russia calls to invite him to Worlds. Zhenya’s already on the roster and, even if he wasn’t, Sasha would still say yes. Bronze at the Olympics, Cup of Russia, and he still wants more.

So does Sydney.

She waits another day before she calls Team Canada. The women and men share venues for Worlds like they do for the Olympics. Some people claim that the only reason the women are there is because they need to offer cheap tickets for the people who can’t afford to watch “real” hockey.

It’s bullshit, of course.

The women’s games are cheaper, but it means there are more kids in the stands, and Syd would take them over drunken guys leering at her any day.

“Sydney?” the Team Canada rep repeats after Sydney tells her her name.

“Crosby,” she adds. “Could I speak to Melody Davidson please?”

“I--yes, of course. Congratulations on the Olympics. And Russia.”

“Thank you.”

Sydney talks to Coach Davidson, secures an invite to the team, then opens Sasha’s computer to book their flight.

“We should go to Magnitogorsk,” Sydney says. “Then we can all fly out together.” She looks over at Sasha, sprawled out on his couch. “Unless you think Zhenya isn’t ready to see us.”

“He’s ready,” Sasha says.

“You mean  _ you’re  _ ready.” But since Sydney wants both her boyfriends with her she doesn’t protest. “I’m buying our tickets for Worlds. You get the middle seat.”

“Hey.”

She laughs as  _ that’s _ what gets him off his ass. “Ask Zhenya if he can pick us up from the airport.”

Sasha scoffs and books their flight to Magnitogorsk. He texts Zhenya the details.

“It would be polite to ask,” Sydney says.

“It’s not like I’m making him wake up early. This  _ is _ polite.”

The next few days taken care of, Sydney closes the computer. She hooks her legs around Sasha and reels him in. He lets her, amused more than anything else.

“Do you want something?” he asks.

He knows exactly what she wants. “There’s still a little bit of champagne left. Final celebration.”

“Final?”

“The next time we celebrate it’ll be a Worlds win.”  _ And Zhenya will be with us. _

“Cocky.”

There are no cameras around, so Syd grins, bright and sharp. “No one can touch Canada.”

Sasha slips his hands up her shirt, careful of the lingering bruises from the playoffs. “Tell me more about how good you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but then Sasha kneels in front of her so he can press a kiss to her stomach. He pushes her shirt higher, impatient, and she takes it off for him. He eyes her like he wants her  _ right now _ , and it’s a heady feeling but--

“Not in the kitchen chair,” she says.

Sasha kisses her stomach again and smirks when he feels her muscles quiver. “Why not?”

There are practical reasons, it isn’t comfortable, they’ll probably break the chair, but what she says is, “I’m going to be the best player on the women’s ice. I deserve a bed.”

Sasha kisses her one last time, using a hint of teeth, before he stands up and holds his hand out to her.

#

Zhenya picks them up from the airport, greeting them with a hug and a backslap.

“Mama wants to feed you,” Zhenya tells them.

He looks skinny and tired, the wear of the season evident in the looseness of his shirt and the dark circles under his eyes. There’s nothing Syd can do to ease the failure lurking on his hunched shoulders. Sasha can. A win at Worlds will help.

“I won’t say no to that,” Sasha says.

Syd tucks herself under Zhenya’s arm because they can get away with it and because for the foreseeable future, Sasha and Zhenya will be roommates. The hardest part of their relationship is feeling left out, but Syd knows she has no right to complain. It’s Zhenya who has to watch her and Sasha play on the same team and Sasha who has to stand to the side when she and Zhenya cuddle like this. It’s Sasha who might be the odd one out when Syd and Zhenya are Penguins.

Syd lets Sasha have the front seat of the car. It’s practical, enough trunk space for hockey gear that it can’t be Zhenya’s.

“Did you pick us up in your mama’s car?” Sasha asks, smirking. 

Zhenya flips him off. “It’s Denis’s. And I bought it for him.”

“He picked it out though.”

Zhenya can’t argue with that.

Zhenya’s phone buzzes the whole drive home, but Sasha slaps his hands away every time he reaches for it.

“You’re driving precious cargo,” Sasha says. He finally tosses the phone in the backseat with Sydney.

She wrinkles her nose as she tucks it into her bag. “That makes me sound like I’m pregnant.”

Zhenya slams on the brakes so he doesn’t rear-end the car in front of them.

“Syd?” Sasha asks.

“I’m not fucking pregnant.”

“Sure?” 

“Yes. And no, I’m not peeing on a stick to prove it you.”

Sasha and Zhenya exchange looks. She kicks the back of Sasha’s seat because it’s safer.

“I’m not pregnant. You would know, promise.”

“But--”

“When was the last time we had sex?”

Sasha hesitates as if he doesn’t want to talk about their Cup celebration with Zhenya here.

Sydney rolls her eyes. “Sex that could get me pregnant?”

“The Olympics,” Zhenya answers.

“So trust me when I say you would know. No gold medal baby for us.”

“Next Olympics,” Sasha says, recovering. “Double gold baby.”

Syd kicks his seat again.

#

They’re greeted at the door by the Malkins, though Denis slips by them to make sure his car is all in one piece.

“Congrats,” he says in passing.

“He’s not that bad a driver,” Sydney says.

“You haven’t seen the news?” Natalia asks.

“News?” Zhenya asks.

Syd takes his phone out of her bag and hands it over. She tries not to be nosy but when Sasha peers over Zhenya’s shoulder, she does too.

Zhenya is the next captain of Metallurg Magnitogorsk.

“Wow,” Sydney says.

Zhenya looks awfully unhappy for someone just named captain. He snaps his phone shut and shoves it in his pocket. “I told them I wasn’t sure if I was staying.”

“Guess they decided for you,” Denis says.

Zhenya storms into the house.

Syd and Natalia give Denis identical looks.

“We’ll talk to him,” Sydney says.

“They announced Alekno’s retirement while you were flying,” Vladimir says. He watches Sasha for his reaction. “Our Zhenya isn’t the only one with good news.”

“It isn’t official,” Sasha says.

“It will be soon,” Syd says. “And it’ll be the story of Team Russia at Worlds. You and Zhenya need to be careful. The North American media especially will try to pit you against each other.”

“I bet Pittsburgh would name you captain this year,” Denis says.

“I have back-to-back Cups to win.” Syd sweeps into the house and turns toward the apartment. Sasha scrambles to catch up to her.

Zhenya’s sitting on his bed, head in his hands.

“You deserve it,” Sydney tells him.

“Feels like letting Velichkin win.”

Syd sits down next to him. She draws his hands away from his face.

“When we’re ready, he won’t stop us.”

Zhenya shakes his head as if he doesn’t believe her.

“This is my last season in Russia,” she says and  _ that _ gets his attention. “I won’t pressure you, either of you, but next season I’m going whether Lemieux’s made a miracle trade or not. And if you want to come with me then I won’t let anyone, even Velichkin, stop you.”

#

Sasha and Zhenya have a joint press conference when they fly in for Worlds. They sit side by side in their Russian tracksuits and announce that they’re staying in the RSL for another season. Then they talk about setting their teams aside to compete for Russia.

The Capitals trade Ovechkin’s rights to the Carolina Hurricanes as part of a blockbuster move because they can’t afford to wait and see if their superstar will come over.

_ This is what we want, _ Syd tells herself.  _ A lack of hope and trades mean this might work. _ But the articles are hard on Sasha as the North American media rips him to shreds for “abandoning” a team that needed him.

“When are you making your announcement?” Ouellette asks Sydney. 

They’re rooming together, and Syd’s clothes are in piles on her bed as she decides how to use the dresser.

“After the tournament. I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“I don’t think there’s any way for you to avoid that. Besides, when you don’t answer they’ll know that you’re staying.”

“I’m playing for Team Canada right now,” Sydney says. “That’s where my focus is.”

“They won’t bite on that.”

“They don’t have to but it’s the only answer they’ll get.”

“Do you think our boys have had enough time to remember how to play hockey since the Olympics?” Ouellette looks over at her. “You’re cheering for Canada, right?”

“Canada comes first, Sasha and Zhenya know that. I told Sasha he would have to settle for the tournament scoring title.”

“And?”

And he said  _ Get yourself a man who can do both. _ Syd grins as she puts her t-shirts away. “He’s gunning for them both. Our boys will stop him.”

“They’d better. They were shit in February and they know it.”

New coaching staff, new team. Canada’s ready to put Turin behind them. Well, the men are. The women are looking to build on their success.

“We’re doing some team building tonight,” Ouellette says.

“My name is Sydney Crosby, I like hockey, and my favorite color is the blue-white of a freshly frozen pond.”

Ouellette chucks a pillow at her head and Syd laughs as she dodges it.

#

The Team Canada women go to dinner together then meet up with the men. Because of the NHL schedule, the whole team isn’t there yet, waiting to see who’ll be knocked out of the first two rounds.

Marc-Andre Fleury is there, the young goalie for the Pens. He glances up when she comes in then looks away. She doesn’t blame him. If they want the Pens trading to acquire Sasha then the NHL has to give up hope on all three of them.

“Croz!” Weber calls out.

Their paths have crossed at various Team Canada events over the years. He’s a good guy, solid defenseman. He’s also standing next to Fleury.

_ This is what you signed up for _ , she tells herself as she crosses over to where they are.

“Hey Webs. How’s Nashville?”

“Oh, you know. Have you met Flower? He plays for the Pens, but I wasn’t sure if you’d forgotten who they are.”

“Hilarious,” Sydney says. She bumps her shoulder into him, and he retaliates by wrapping her up in a hug.

“Hi,” she tells Fleury.

“Hello.” His English is thickly accented. “You played well in the Olympics.”

“Thank you. I’m hoping our team still clicks. You’ve looked good for Pittsburgh.”

This catches him off guard. “You’ve watched?” Then his lips twist into a frown. “Clearly not. Haven’t you heard? I’m the worst first pick Therrien has ever seen.”

“Fuck Therrien.”

Weber chokes.

Fleury looks away.

“You’re a good goalie,” Syd says, “and with a better team in front of you, you’d be a great one.”

“We’d be a better team if we had our top two centers.”

It’s a deserved blow, but it still hurts. “Don’t give up on us,” Syd says in clumsy French. “Hold the team together a little longer. Please.”

Fleury shrugs and walks away.

Webs hugs her tighter as if he knows she needs it. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“Barely. I switched to Russian when I realized the RSL was my future.”

“You could have the NHL now.”

“And abandon Sasha in his first year as captain? I’m a better teammate than that.”

“They won’t wait forever for you.”

“I know. I just--it’s not an easy decision.”

“It’s the NHL.”

She doesn’t know how to explain how she feels to someone whose problem was never  _ will they let me? _ but  _ am I good enough? _ Being good enough has never been her problem.

_ One more year and I’ll have the NHL. We’ll win the Cup for Fleury. _

“Like, I get Malkin and Ovechkin. Everyone knows Russians are a risk. And now that they’ve been named captain, it’s over. They’ll never get a captaincy in the NHL, not after snubbing their teams.”

“Thanks, Don Cherry.” She knocks Weber’s arms away.

He draws a breath as if he’s about to defend himself. Then he deflates on a quiet, “Sorry. I know Ovechkin’s your teammate. I don’t know why you care about Malkin, though.”

“He’s my future teammate.”

“Not this season.”

“Magnitogorsk is his hockey and home. That’s a lot for someone to give up.”

“That’s his excuse. What’s yours?”

She laughs. “You know it isn’t the same for us. Maybe we play Timbits near home but Shattuck was in the States. Even the Q wouldn’t have been home. And Pittsburgh--right now it’s just a city.”

“You make it home.”

“One day.” But that’s a lot of work and she already has a home.

#

“We’ve heard from your Russian cohorts,” a Sportsnet reporter says. “Ovechkin and Malkin are staying in Russia to captain their RSL teams next season. What’s your plan?”

Syd tugs on the brim of her cap to draw attention to the maple leaf. “I’m focused on playing for Canada right now.”

“Does Pittsburgh need to lure you in with a captaincy of your own? Mario’s announced his retirement. There will be an opening.”

“Wicks is a strong leader, and she deserves the captaincy for Canada. I hope to live up to the A I’ve been given. I know that I have a lot to learn, but I have some things I can contribute as well.”

“Your two-way game is improving,” the reporter says, recognizing when he’s lost a fight.

“Offense is fun and flashy but defense is just as important.”

“Your Dynamo teammate has enough flash for a whole country.”

“Different players fill different needs. I have a couple Team Canada teammates I’ll feed the puck to as often as I can, because they have a good finish.”

“You’re no slouch in the scoring department.”

“I shoot enough to be a threat. Sometimes that half-second of freezing the goalie is the difference between scoring or not. If the defenders and the goalies have to think then we’re giving ourselves an advantage.”

“Well, we’re looking for a repeat of your Olympic performance.”

“We’ll certainly do our best,” Sydney says.

#

“Could you be any more boring?” Agosta asks. “ _ Defense is important _ .”

“Boring is good,” Sydney says.

“Not if we want them paying attention to us.”

“Us winning isn’t a story, it’s an expectation. Screwing up is a story but that’s not what we’re doing. We play for the crowd in the stands and we play for each other.”

Ouellette wolf whistles then gives her a standing ovation. Sydney flips her off.

Heff approaches, her phone held out like a microphone. “What’s your opinion on international support and cooperation?”

“Yeah, Sydney,” Ouellette drawls.

Syd just laughs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t we have something better to be doing?”

“We want you to feel like one of us,” Wicks says, pulling Syd in for a hug. “Ladies, I think Croz is feeling a little unloved.”

“I’m really not.”

It doesn’t matter. Suddenly, it’s a group hug, Syd crushed on all sides by enthusiastic teammates.

#

“Croz, you coming to lunch?” Agosta asks. “Apparently the surf and turf down the road is the best in the city.”

“I was going to grab a salad and a sandwich across the street.”

“Something quick?” Ouellette asks knowingly.

“Oh, right,” Wicks says. “Russia plays this afternoon.”

Sydney tenses, unsure if the teasing will take a sharp turn. She’s managed to keep herself from swearing in Russian, and she’s careful not to seek Sasha and Zhenya out, but she wants to watch their first game.

“I’ll go with you,” Agosta says.

“But your surf and turf--”

“We’ll go for dinner.”

Relieved that no one’s going to give her a hard time Syd says, “Okay,” and they head out.

They get a little lost on their way to the arena, but they find their seats in time for puck drop.

“Huh,” Syd says as Russia loses the first faceoff.

She isn’t surprised that Zhenya’s on the bench, there’s a lot of talent at center and he’s still young, but she thought Sasha would be on the top line.

Then Sasha and Zhenya go over the boards together and she says, “Huh,” again.

“Malkin’s stealing your winger.”

“I can share,” Sydney says with a smile.

Agosta eyes her, considering, and Syd smiles guilelessly back.

“Everyone thinks you’re a programmable robot, but you aren’t.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re also incredibly confusing.”

Sydney laughs. “Growing up in Russia has been good for me. I’m not on camera all the time. I think it would’ve been different if I’d stayed to play Junior in Rimouski then gone straight into the NHL. It would’ve been a lot.”

“You think you wouldn’t have been able to handle it?”

“I would but I don’t think I’d be as happy as I am now. And,” here she pauses for a moment, wondering how much she can say. “I had freedom in Russia I wouldn’t have had in Canada. I’ve found my own path and done things I never would have dared to do back home.”

Zhenya bullies his way through the zone, drawing players to himself before making a back pass to Sasha. 

“And meeting people?” Agosta asks.

Sydney acknowledges the point with a shrug.

“Will you ever leave?”

“I’m not making any decisions until after Worlds.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not making any  _ announcements _ . I know what I’m doing, but I don’t want to be a distraction. Worlds should be about us and our team, not my personal future.”

“There’s that media training.”

“I also mean it. I know I’m not in North America and that I’m not playing in a women’s league, but you’re my team and important.”

“We’re getting uncomfortably close to feelings.”

Sydney laughs and kisses Agosta’s cheek.

#

Sasha and Zhenya combine for six points on the night and the Russian media speculates on who centers Sasha better, Sydney or Zhenya. It leaves her scowling at her tablet as she enters breakfast the next morning. She’s glad that they’re playing well together but she wants to be the best.

“It’s one game,” Syd tells Ouellette. “I’ve centered him for three seasons.”

“Maybe they’re daring you to stay another season and prove it.”

Sydney hesitates then glares at her tablet again. “I hate that it sort of works.”

Ouellette laughs. “We hockey players are a predictable bunch.”

She forces herself to turn her tablet off. “We have a game of our own that I should be focused on.”

“You can show off your centering prowess. Maybe you and Agosta will combine for eight points.”

“Fucking right we will.”

#

Two minutes into the first period, Sydney wins an offensive zone faceoff to Agosta who one-times the puck into the back of the net. 

#

Two shifts later, Syd weaves in and out of defenders as she takes the puck from behind her own net to behind the other. The goalie seals her left post and looks over her shoulder. Agosta and Piper both drop down. She passes to Piper who slings the puck across the net mouth. Agosta taps the puck into the open net.

Less than four minutes into the game and they’re up 2-0.

“Hatty watch,” Piper whispers when they’re back on the bench. 

Agosta punches her in the thigh.

#

On the next shift, Wicks nearly nets another goal, but the goalie scrambles and somehow manages to keep the puck out.

She gets her goal on the power play, a bang-in goal off Agosta’s original shot and Syd’s pass.

One period and Syd and Agosta have combined for six points. Ouellette nudges her on the bench. “Six and counting.”

#

Coach breaks up their lines for the second period. Syd loses Agosta for the whole twenty minutes. She plays with a different combination of wingers on seemingly every shift. She plays well, because every player on the team is skilled, but she’d prefer to settle into one line.

It’s important that they’re a threat no matter who’s on the ice, and it’s even more important that the Americans won’t know their lineup. 

Still, Syd’s glad when she and Agosta are reunited in the third. 

Syd’s sitting on a 5-point night, all assists, but she wants at least one more before the game is over. She wants to get Agosta the hatty.

It’s always a tough balance, pushing to play their best while not completely embarrassing the other team. She wishes there was more parity in the women’s game so they’d be challenged in every game.

Their wins against the US always mean more, because they had to fight for them.

#

In the dwindling minutes of the game, Syd intercepts a break-out pass to keep the puck in the offensive zone. All the players are caught going the wrong direction.

With a flick of her wrists, she could net her first goal of the tournament.

She passes.

It’s Agosta who scores, her third of the night.

There’s no big celly, because the goal makes it 10-1, but Syd makes sure to give her extra helmet taps.

#

The team eats dinner together, piling into a restaurant and ordering so much food the waitress has to flag someone else down to help.

Now they’re rowdy, celebrating the big win and the hat trick. Agosta’s face is flushed pink as Wicks then Poulin talk up her game. It was obviously a strong offensive game, but her defense was good when it needed to be.

“Finland will be a better game,” Wicks says.

“Your turn for the hatty,” Heff says, and the whole table cheers.

#

After dinner, the team disperses to see family or hang out in the rec room or to Skype back home. Syd slips down the street before anyone can ask where she’s going. A couple turns and she finds a small bakery that’s still open despite the late hour.

Sasha and Zhenya are waiting there for her, Zhenya with a hot drink and Sasha with some kind of fruit-filled pastry.

“Good game,” Sasha says. He hands her the pastry before she can try to turn it down.

“Six points,” Zhenya adds, giving her the drink as they escort her out.

They turn down a different road, moving away from the busier part of the city.

“As many as you two had together.”

“Is that a challenge?” Sasha asks. He grins, delighted, and reaches around her to poke Zhenya. “You better step your game up.”

“Me? You’re the one who hit post twice.”

“If only I’d had a better pass.”

Syd laughs and steps out of the way as they playfully squabble over whose fault the two missed goals are. She can’t help but wonder what would happen if they all did manage to become Penguins. Would they ever play on a line together?

She knows she and Zhenya are both too natural at center for one of them to be forced onto the wing for an extended period of time but once or twice, she just wants to know what it’d be like.

Instead of the Dynamo Duo, they could be the triple-threat. The Cerberus of hockey.

Sasha bumps her shoulder, pulling her out of the fantasy. “Are we boring you?”

“Just thinking.” She finishes her drink and tosses it in a nearby trash can. That’s when she realizes they’ve found a little park.

The pathway is lined with lights, but there are plenty of places they could go off the path where it won’t be easy to see them.

She grins and clasps their hands in her own.

#

“Wow,” Ouellette says when Sydney returns to their room.

She knows she looks like she just spent the past hour hooking up with her boyfriends. Her lips feel puffy and her face is flushed and she can’t keep the giant smile off her face. She did her best to fix her hair but it’s probably a lost cause.

“We won,” Syd defends.

“We sure did. This isn’t the Olympics so there aren’t bowls of condoms everywhere. If you need some--”

“We don’t,” Syd interrupts. “There’s having fun then there’s being stupid.”

They can make out in the shadows, but there’s no way they’re risking sex. That’s not the headline she wants making it home.

“Good, because I was going to tell you to ask someone else.”

Syd stops staring into space. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Ouellette doesn’t elaborate, and Syd doesn’t push.

#

Syd records four assists in their win over Finland. Five articles come out criticizing her lack of finish.

_ Lazy _ they accuse, claiming that she’s relying on her teammates to carry the scoring burden.

_ Too Russian, _ another says before going into a breakdown of her play with Moscow.

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Coach tells her. “I’ll tell you if I want you to change anything.”

#

In their last game of group play, she passes on an empty net to give herself seven assists on the night. 

“You could’ve had a goal,” Agosta says in the locker room. She says it quietly, cautious as if she thinks Syd’s lost her confidence or maybe her mind. “That wasn’t a hatty for me.”

“Fuck the reporters,” Syd says.

All of her teammates turn to stare.

“Uh oh,” Ouellette says. “Sweden better watch out. Beast mode has been activated.”

#

Syd’s two assists against Sweden help clinch their place in the gold medal match against the United States.

Syd didn’t do anything as blatant as pass on an empty net that time, but Wicks still pulls her aside and says, “We need you focused for Team USA.”

“I will be,” Syd promises.

“Are you going to the Russia game tonight?”

Is that a trick question?

“We can watch them beat Team USA,” Wicks says.

Not a trick then. “Sure. It should be a good game.”

The Team USA women are at the game, but they sit far enough away that there won’t be any trouble. Syd settles between Ouellette and Agosta and tries to look relaxed.

It’s ruined the moment Sasha and Zhenya jump onto the ice for the first time. She leans forward in her seat and Wicks laughs.

Zhenya barrels into the offensive zone, drawing a crowd. He weathers a hit, protects the puck from a stick check then passes to Sasha who blasts the puck into the goal.

“Wow,” Wicks says. “Guess you have good taste, kid.”

“They play well together,” Poulin says. “Are you worried they’ll try to trade you for Malkin?”

Syd laughs. “Magnitogorsk won’t let him go to the NHL. They certainly won’t let him go to a rival RSL team.”

“They won’t let him leave?” Agosta asks. “What do you mean?”

“They do things differently in Russia.”

“Is that why you’re staying? Because you only want to play with the Penguins if he’s there?”

A smile tugs at her lips. “I’m not making a decision until after Worlds.”

Her team groans but move onto safer topics.

#

The women’s gold medal match is nestled on the day between the men’s semis and the men’s finals. She plays Team USA for gold tonight and tomorrow Zhenya and Sasha take on the Team Canada men.

They wished her luck this morning and she whispered her hopes for them. She felt guilty for a moment, but she’s since shelved that guilt. She has a game to win tonight. She can’t afford any distractions.

She sits in her stall and pulls her equipment on one piece at a time. The locker room is quiet, everyone focused on their own preparations. 

Wicks is the first to break the unofficial silence. After her is Poulin, then Ouellette. By the time Coach comes in they’re ready to hear the game plan one last time. 

Sydney takes the ice for warm-ups knowing that they’ve done this before. The teams haven’t changed much since the Olympics a couple months ago. This is being touted as a rematch, a consolation prize for the Americans if they can pull off a win and another expected W in Canada’s continued international dominance.

Syd goes through her stickhandling then plays catch against the boards. She takes a few shots on goal then skates a lazy circle around her half of the ice. Somewhere in the stands are Sasha and Zhenya and the whole Canadian men’s team. Her parents and sister watch from home. Jack and Elizabeth probably do too.

Is Jack conflicted on who he wants to win?

She tests her edges then takes a couple more shots. The thing about warm-ups is that she’s already loose. The crowd that’s here is smaller than the one she competes for back home, but she still feels them slipping into her head.

She needs Sasha to tell her a joke and Volkov to tell her to quit daydreaming, that she’s worse than his kids.

Agosta finds her staring off into the crowd. “I didn’t think you let anything get into your head.”

“I usually hide it better.” Syd flips a loose puck into her glove. “Do you want to pass a bit?”

“Sure.” Agosta catches Syd’s pass then cradles the puck. “We can do this.”

“I know. I just hate waiting.”

Agosta grins. “Well in that case.” She doesn’t pass the puck back and it turns into an impromptu game of keepaway. 

By the time the buzzer sounds to end warm-ups, Syd is flushed and laughing, settled in a way she wasn’t earlier.

Agosta bumps her shoulder. “You good?”

“Now comes the fun part,” Sydney says.

#

The Americans score two early, the first one on a flukey bounce and the second on the power play.

Down two isn’t where Sydney wants to be, but it’s only midway through the first period. There’s still a lot of hockey left to play and they’ll win this, one shift at a time.

First, a solid shift in their own defensive zone as they shut down the Americans offense. 

Then a good shift in their offensive zone. They don’t score, but they expose weaknesses in the defense and learn that the goalie isn’t confident.

Even with a two goal lead she looks over shoulder when she freezes the puck as if she expects that it slipped through her pads.

Syd takes her line over the boards for an offensive zone faceoff. She wins it and passes back to Agosta who slings the puck around the boards. Canada wins the battle for the puck and Syd finds it on her stick again.

She shoots.

The goalie catches the puck between her arm and her side. It’s an awkward save and she begins to tip over.

It was also a lucky save.

Sydney meets the goalie’s gaze and bares her teeth. They both know it was lucky. And there’s plenty of time left for that luck to run out. They both know that too.

#

The Canadians continue to chip away at Team USA’s confidence. They don’t score in the first, but they don’t need to. They’re laying down important groundwork. They don’t score in the second which wouldn’t be a problem except the Americans head down the tunnel with their heads held high.

They’re beginning to believe.

#

Team USA played frustrated in the second because they couldn’t get anything going, but there’s no sign of that frustration to start the third. They’re up by two, shutting out the Olympic gold medalists, and Sydney needs to do something.

Two minutes in, Agosta springs her for a breakaway, and Syd takes off. The Americans are playing cautious so it turns into a 1-on-2, Syd against both d-women and the goalie. 

She dekes, turns them inside out, and shoots. Top corner and  _ in _ .

She shouts as she raises her arms above her head. She slams into the glass, uncaring whether the spectators are booing or cheering with her.

_ That _ was exactly what her team needed to get them back on track.

She turns around in time for her teammates to jump into her arms. One goal on the board and now they push for more. Team USA is beatable and now they can’t sit on their lead because Syd’s put them on notice.

She skates down the line at the bench, a giant smile on her face. Everyone who said she’s been putting up so many assists that she’s forgotten how to score can suck it. She always shows up when it matters the most, and this was the spark they needed.

Wicks goes over the boards and her line keeps the Americans pinned for an entire shift.

The momentum has swung and every single person in this stadium knows it.

#

Poulin scores the power play goal which ties the game. 

Syd leaps to her feet and hugs Agosta as the bench celebrates. 

The American goalie knocks the puck out of her net then goes for a skate. She’s shaken, now, her confidence fractured. Time to shatter it.

Wicks wins the faceoff then ten seconds later, wins a board battle and takes the puck up ice. She slips the puck between the defender’s legs then lifts it up and over the goalie’s outstretched pad.

3-2.

The bench erupts again. Sydney hugs everyone in reach.

“Now we lock it down,” Coach shouts over their excitement.

#

The rest of the game is a  _ battle _ . The Americans won’t roll over, and each side fights for every second of possession.

She’s bruised and battered by the time the Americans pull their goalie and it only gets worse from there. But they stand their ground, surviving the final push, and when the game ends it’s still 3-2.

Syd tosses her gloves then her helmet then she throws herself over the boards as she races Agosta to Wicks.

3-2 and they’ve done it.

The Olympics and now Worlds.

They’re the best hockey team on the planet.

Syd laughs and plants a kiss on Agosta’s cheek. She kisses back then Poulin grabs her. When the kissing finally calms down, there’s a handshake line then they’re awarded their trophy. After pictures they go into the locker room for champagne and even more kisses.

#

It’s just their team who celebrates because the men have a game the next day. Unlike the Olympics, Syd doesn’t manage to sneak off to visit Sasha and Zhenya because they also have a game tomorrow.

And because, for right now, she belongs to Canada.

They party hard, feeding off their own excitement until they pass out in a couple different hotel rooms. Syd wakes up sandwiched between Agosta and Ouellette. She’s lost her shirt and one of her socks. Agosta’s missing her pants.

She decides it’s too early to deal with this and goes back to sleep.

#

She’s hungover and doing her best to hide it during the media scrum later that morning.

“You’ve had an unbelievable season,” a reporter tells her. “You won gold at the Olympics, won the Cup of Russia, were the points leader in the RSL, and now you’ve won Worlds. Are you ready to play in the NHL and see what kind of damage you can do there?”

“It has been a good year,” Syd agrees. “Busy too. It’s always a good year when I’m able to represent my country and to be able to do it twice and to win both times. It’s an honor and a privilege. 

“Your Russian buddies face off against Canada this evening. Is there any question of who you’ll be cheering for?”

“No question, my country comes first.”

“Does that mean we’ll see you in a Penguins jersey this fall?”

“I’m here to talk about Canada right now. Worlds isn’t over.”

“Your part in it is.”

As if on cue, Agosta slides up Sydney. “Are you almost finished? We’re going all out for the game--glitter, face paint, you name it, we’re doing it.”

“I still have a team to cheer for,” Sydney says. She tips her sunglasses back down and lets Agosta lead her away.

#

The women’s team is far from the only people in the stands supporting Canada but they’re certainly the loudest. Now that their games, and press, are over, they’re all tipsy, making them more obnoxious than they might otherwise be.

Sydney eyes the junk food the people in front of them have. Her season is over which means she should be watching what she eats. Maybe she’ll wait until tomorrow. Arena food brings her back to her youth hockey days.

She pulls out of her slouch as Canada then Russia take the ice. She told everyone the truth, she’s cheering for Canada, but she’s also hoping that Sasha and Zhenya play well. It’s hard playing for different countries.

She tries not to let her attention linger too much on their side of the ice, but her gaze is continuously drawn to them as they warm-up. Zhenya’s flat on his back, scissoring his legs as part of his bizarre stretching routine. She wants to be on the ice with him so she can tease him for the strange habit.

_ Next year _ , she promises herself.

#

Russia scores on the opening play, a bang-bang-goal that Canada isn’t prepared for.

“Well, fuck,” Agosta says.

“We had a slow start,” Syd reminds her. “Our boys can still do it.”

“Hell yeah they can,” Poulin says.

Despite their enthusiasm, they can’t will the men into playing better. A late turnover in the first period ends with the puck on Zhenya’s stick then in the back of the net.

Frustration only builds for Team Canada and mid-way through the second period, a bad penalty leads to a goal for Sasha.

“Fuck,” Agosta says again.

This time, no one has any uplifting words to share.

Two shifts later, Likov slams Webs into the boards shoulder first.

“Fucking classless piece of shit!” Syd shouts even though he can’t hear her. Up by three and making plays like  _ that _ ? She yells at him in Russian too as if that will magically make him able to hear her.

The only audience she draws is the one around her. Once she stops grumbling, she realizes that every single person on her team is staring at her.

“I don’t like him,” Sydney says.

“No fucking kidding.” Wicks eyes her, proud and a little intimidated.

“Can you teach me some of those words?” Agosta asks.

Syd flushes a deep red. “Not unless you want every Russian grandmother washing your mouth out with soap.”

Khtey taught her the worst of it when a hit from Likov kept Sasha out for two games. Syd had been on the very edge of throwing a punch, but Khtey reeled her in and taught her what to call him, under her breath where no one could hear. It felt like getting away with something even if it wasn’t as satisfying as punching his smug fucking face would have been.

“Now I really want to learn,” Agosta says.

“I’ll teach you a couple things. None of the stuff that will get you punched.”

“You’re too young to be making a bid for Team Mom,” Agosta says.

Syd teaches her team a couple phrases, and they spend the rest of the period heckling Team Russia in their own language. It doesn’t matter.

The period ends 3-0.

Syd doesn’t feel much like a hot dog anymore, but she goes with Agosta anyway so she can stretch her legs. In their Team Canada gear, they actually blend in. No one’s on the lookout for the women’s team, and they look a lot different without their helmets and cages.

It’s not a big deal until they’re in line and someone says, “Crosby?” reading off thte back of her shirt with a sneer that makes Syd stiffen her shoulders. “Russian loving bitch.”

Next to her, Agosta draws up, tight and angry, the way she does on the ice right before she does something stupid.

“Don’t,” Syd says, her voice pitched low.

“But I just learned all these new words.”

“Yeah, because Russian insults will solve this problem.”

Agosta deflates a little. “Maybe if we turned around?”

And risk the guys realizing they aren’t heckling a Sydney Crosby fan but the player? “You think they wouldn’t be even happier to say it to my face? We won. Canada doesn’t need me for at least another year.”

“Syd—”

Sydney shakes her head. “Let’s get your hot dog and get back to our seats.”

The guys behind them are not so easily ignored.

“Crosbitch,” one of them says then laughs like he’s some kind of fucking comedian.

“Crysby,” the other giggles.

“Hey, why don’t you shut your mouth,” someone else snaps. “I didn’t see  _ you _ out there winning for Canada.”

This is only going to escalate and Syd doesn’t want to be here when it boils over. They’re only two people from the front of the line. Can they wait that much longer? Should Syd try to slip away?

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she tells Agosta. At her mulish look, she adds, “I mean it.”

She waits for Agosta to nod before she steps out of line, careful to keep her back to the hecklers.

“Yeah, that’s right! Run back to Russia!”

Sydney pauses. She’s tempted to spin around and dare them to say it to her face. Or throw a punch the way she would if they were on the ice. But she  _ isn’t _ on the ice, and the rules are different. She can’t fight everyone who hurts her feelings. She takes a deep breath then keeps walking.

She isn’t ready to go back to her seat even though she probably should. She walks until she finds a stand selling weird ice cream. They’re little tiny balls of ice cream, and she stares at the sign, skeptical.

“They’re good.”

The speaker is a little girl in thick red leggings and a black Team Canada shirt. She has a dozen sparkly red clips in her hair.

“I’ve never had it,” Syd says.

“Then you should try it. My mom says it’s important to try new things.”

“Where is your mom?” She’s too young to be wandering the arena on her own.

The girl points to the bathroom. “There’s a really long line, and I don’t have to pee.”

Syd looks at the person behind the ice cream cart then back at the girl. “Do you want some ice cream?”

The girl’s face lights up before she pauses. “My mom says I shouldn’t accept things from strangers. But you’re not a stranger. You’re Sydney Crosby.”

“I am.”

“You played really well. When are you coming to the NHL so I can watch you all the time?” Before Syd can answer she bounds over to the sign. “I can really have some?”

“Of course. What kind should I get?”

“Cookies ‘n cream. I’m going to get mint-chocolate, but I can share a little if you want.”

“That’s very kind of you, but one will be enough for me.”

Syd buys them each an ice cream and they eat while they wait for the girl’s mom.

“You’re going to miss the start of the third,” the girl says.

“That’s okay. I’d feel better waiting with you until you see your mom.”

“I’m Jenna. We couldn’t go to the Olympics because it was too expensive but this is better because I got to meet you.”

They transition into talking about Jenna’s school and her hockey team. They’re discussing the best way to deal with bullies when a woman with a slightly panicked expression approaches them.

“Jenna Rebecca Coffman—”

Jenna beams as she points to Syd. “She’s not a stranger! This is Sydney Crosby.”

Mrs. Coffman takes a deep breath, looks at Sydney, then takes another.

“You have a very charming daughter,” Sydney says.

Mrs. Coffman eyes the nearly empty cup of ice cream in Jenna’s hands. “I do. I’m very sorry for any inconvenience. I—”

“Mom, we’re going to miss the whole third period if you keep talking, and I want to see our comeback.”

Sydney signs the maple leaf on Jenna’s shirt then heads back to her own seat. Agosta’s back and the relief on her teammates faces means she must’ve told them at least some of what happened. Syd scowls.

“None of that,” Wicks says. “Agosta was just looking out for you. We were worried that we were going to have to send out a search party.”

“I got some ice cream,” Sydney says.

“Ice cream?” Agosta echoes. “And you didn’t bring any back for me?”

“I see we haven’t scored while I was gone,” Syd says.

“Maybe you’re our lucky charm. Next shift, I can feel it.”

#

Canada doesn’t score a single goal.

Russia wins 4-0, and it’s a dejected Canadian team that shakes Russia’s hands.

“Well, fuck,” Wicks says.

There isn’t much else to say.

#

They meet up with the men for a mourning party that isn’t quite as oppressive as the one after the Olympics. They’d better get their shit together for Vancouver. Syd wants a joint gold medal party.

And she could do without Chris Pronger drunkenly sneering at her. “You’re not with your Russian buddies?”

The room falls silent, the kind that’s charged with alcohol and a frustrated helplessness. She stands her ground but doesn’t sound combative as she says, “Canada is my country.”

Someone gives him another drink and Syd slips away to talk to Webs. Some time after that, Ouellette finds her.

“You can go if you want. I’ll cover for you.”

Syd shakes her head. She’ll have plenty of time to celebrate the win with her boys this summer.

“You’re staying,” Ouellette realizes.

“Yeah. I can’t bail on Sasha in his first year as captain.”

“You really like it there.”

“I do. But I could’ve liked it here. I just want to play somewhere I’m appreciated.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ouellette says.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...here it is (I now have Steve Dangle's voice shouting END OF AN ERA in my head. So that's definitely a way to start my day)
> 
> I want to say thank you to everyone who has read or commented throughout this story. It has been a long journey, and I'm glad you've all been on this part of it with me. A huge thank you to Feanor_in_leather_pants. I first came up with this idea and told my beta about Rule!63 Sydney and playing in Moscow and OT3 and she was like "awesome, when are you going to write it". And I just laughed and was like "I'm telling you about it so I don't have to write it. No one else will care about this." And then Feanor gave me the push I needed to take all my thoughts out of my head and put them into a story and; well, turns out people enjoyed it. So thank you to you all. And I hope you enjoy.

When the draft rolls around, they watch on the couch in Syd’s parents’ house. It’s only the three of them which means she can slump between them as the broadcasters talk about her as “Pittsburgh’s disappointment.” They turn speculation towards who Pittsburgh will select. Toews or Staal.

“They’re both strong, capable centers, and Pittsburgh certainly needs one of those with Crosby and Malkin sitting out another year.”

“It’s a shame, could you imagine Crosby, Malkin, and Toews down the middle?”

“Unfair is what that would be.”

The consensus is that Jonathan Toews is the better center, and he has the work ethic and drive that coaches love. But she doesn’t think he’ll be a Penguin after today. Not when Carolina holds Sasha’s rights.

Any hope that Mario can make magic happen depends on this draft.

Pittsburgh steps up for their pick.

Sydney clutches Sasha and Zhenya’s hands.

“The Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select Jordan Staal.”

“Holy shit,” Sydney says. Hope bubbles up too quickly for Sydney to tamp it down. It’s a dangerous kind of hope, but—

“I don’t get it,” Sasha says.

“Carolina has your rights. Do you think Jordan might want to play with Eric? It’s not a guarantee but maybe.”

Maybe.

And that tiny sliver of hope is all she needs.

#

They spend the first part of the summer in Canada, training and seeing the sights. They pop down to the US to visit Elizabeth, who can’t believe that they’re vacationing together.

“People see what they want to see,” Syd says. “We’re friends.”

Elizabeth, who knows better, just laughs.

They spend the second part of the summer in Russia. Syd’s announcement that she’s staying is a formality at that point, but she still makes it.

Before she knows it, she’s gearing up for the new season.

It’s weird to be in the locker room without Alekno and his steady presence. Sokolov is gone too, retired. Berezhko was traded. The team is younger, faster, probably better, but it doesn’t feel like their team, too many important pieces missing.

_ It’s a business _ , she reminds herself.  _ The NHL is the same. Maybe even worse. But I’ll have Sasha  _ and _ Zhenya. _

The older guys tease Sasha about his captaincy and the younger ones look on in awe. Some of them turn the same starry-eyed expression on Sydney, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.

“They look up to you,” Khtey says when her shoulders draw up, uncomfortable. “I don’t fucking know why.”

“Let’s see,” says Volkov. “Two Cups, two scoring titles, and an Olympic gold in three years. That might have something to do with it.”

Syd flushes, pleased and embarrassed in equal turns. “Shut up.”

Volkov laughs. “Her chirping is still shit, though.”

Syd says something that makes him laugh even harder.

It’s Khtey, though, who calls out to Sasha, “Cap, make your alternate be nicer.”

Sasha grins. “Gretzka is developing a mean streak?” He crosses the room so he can clasp her face between his hands and coo at her. “I’m so proud.”

She knocks his hands away with a scowl that’s ruined as she laughs.

It’ll be an adjustment getting to know her new teammates and looking to Sasha as her captain, but she’ll make it.

She has a good feeling about this season.

#

They drop their first two games.

The media says it’s a Cup hangover, that the amount of games they’ve played in the past three seasons are finally taking their toll.

Then they drop the next two.

The narrative shifts so quickly that it makes Syd’s head spin. She and Sasha are too young to lead a team and Syd’s  _ foreign _ and a  _ girl _ on top of it. Moscow has been too aggressive in the changing of the guard and it will be their downfall.

Sasha responds by tightening up. He barks out orders because every time someone listens he feels as if his captaincy is justified.

Sydney tacks on an extra hour, sometimes two, to her practices. Right now, there are enough weaknesses in her game that the reporters are right. And when one of their hits lands, it makes her feel the others.

It all comes to a head after they scrape out an ugly 1-0 win, their first win of the season.

Syd stays after practice is over, because it should’ve been a 5-0 win, but she didn’t convert on her chances and her passes were  _ shit _ . She worked on her passes during practice, but now is the time to work on her shots.

“Come to lunch, Gretzka,” Sasha says. He isn’t using his Captain Voice but there’s an edge to his words that raises her hackles. Or maybe it’s her that twists  _ Gretzka _ into something mocking.

She has one assist through her first six games. It isn’t exactly inspiring.

“I have some things to work on first.”

“You only make bad habits when you practice frustrated.”

She  _ hates _ being lectured on her own game. She knows her strengths and weaknesses. She knows when to push and when to take a break. What does Sasha know? And where does he get off telling her what to do? Just because he wants to slack off doesn’t mean she does.

“I have a plan,” she says.

A crowd of teammates is building as they argue. Sasha notices, and his shoulders draw up. His expression clouds over. “No extra practice today. We eat lunch as a team.”

_ I don’t have to listen to you _ , she thinks, except she  _ does _ . He’s her captain, their entire team is watching to see who will win their first fight.

_ Fuck. _

She takes a deep breath to push the worst of her temper down. “Fine,” she snaps. She skates off the ice and storms past him the best she can in her skates. She might have to listen to him but she doesn’t have to like it.

Everyone gives her a wide berth.  _ Cowards _ she thinks as she strips down. She holds onto her anger as she showers. She’s still tight and running through plays and improvements when Khtey pulls her aside.

“Are you done?” he asks.

“He won’t get better if we don’t get better.”

“Deep.”

She thinks about throwing a punch, but he’d hit her back and a locker room brawl isn’t what they need right now. They almost came to blows in their first season, but this time it isn’t even him she’s mad at.

“Fuck you,” she mutters, sullen.

“You and Sasha need to figure your shit out. You can’t fight like this. It’s bad for the team.”

“Alekno and I argued,” Syd says. Over the same things. She hates it when people try to tell her how to approach her own game. What do they know about her process?

“But he didn’t care when you were pissed at him. Sasha does.” Khtey eyes her as if he’s thinking about bringing up  _ why _ that is. “I don’t know what you two are doing, but it’s fucking with the team.”

“We’re not—”

Khtey cuts her off with a sharp glare. “The media might be harping on this Malkin bullshit but anyone with eyes can see there’s something going on with you and Sasha.”

She scowls and leaves him to hang out with the younger guys.

Of course, Rabinovich looks between her and Sasha and says, “I don’t like it when mom and dad are fighting.”

Sydney takes a deep breath then, when Rabinovich flinches as if she’s going to yell, lets it out. “We’re not fighting. And I’m not your mom.”

“But Sasha is my dad?”

“That’s something to take up with him. You know I’m not actually mad at him, right? I’m frustrated with myself but he’s right I can’t practice all the time. Team stuff away from the rink is important too.”

“So we don’t need a team cuddle session?”

“No.”

“But we could have one anyway?”

“Sure,” she agrees. “After lunch. Anyone you can convince to show up in the rec room.”

“How come  _ I _ have to do the convincing?”

“Your idea.”

He grumbles but after lunch at least half the team crashes in the rec room. She tries to sit on the end of the couch with Tikov but Rabinovich herds her to the middle of the couch and Sasha.

He doesn’t smile at her, warm and welcoming the way he might’ve even two days ago. He doesn’t lift his arm to make space for her either, but she still sits. She’s good at carving out a place for herself where she isn’t wanted.

Rabinovich plasters himself against her other side. She leans into him, absorbing the comfort he offers and hoping he’s getting something in return.

Sasha stays stiff as a board through the first half of the soccer game that’s on. He relaxes during the second, to the point that Syd chances leaning against his side. He curls his arm over her shoulders. She feels Rabinovich relax next to her.

_ Our team shouldn’t be this easy to rattle. _

At least there’s an easy fix.

After the game, someone switches the TV over so they can play video games. Sydney stays tucked against Sasha’s side, content to just watch.

Once everyone’s involved in playing or trash talking or both, she murmurs a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I shouldn’t act like I know what’s best for you.”

“You shouldn’t but I need to remember what’s best for me isn’t always what’s best for the team, and the team comes first.”

Sasha smiles at her for the first time in too long. Then he brushes a kiss over her forehead, an apology and a promise to be better rolled into one.

Syd returns his smile then realizes that the room is far too quiet. The races are paused so their teammates can stare.

“What?” Sasha asks. “Ah, you’re jealous? No need. There are enough captain kisses for everyone.”

He reaches over Sydney to smack a loud kiss to Rabinovich’s cheek then chases Tikov around the room, both of them laughing.

“He was gentler with you,” Rabinovich says as Sasha finally tackles Tikov so he can plant sloppy kisses on his face.

Syd grins and lays a featherlight kiss on his brow. “Better?”

“I’m glad things are good.”

“And they’ll get even better.”

#

Rabinovich and Khtey stay late with her after practice the next day to work on faceoffs. Khtey calls it after half an hour then Rabinovich wheedles them into taking him out for lunch.

“You’re shameless,” Khtey tells him.

He smiles happily and drags them down the street for sushi. He returns to the dorms, triumphant, and brags about how Syd and Khtey like him best. Word must spread through the team because Volkov, who spends as much time away from the dorms as possible, finds her as she’s warming up for practice.

“Who would’ve thought that you two would ever be friends?”

“We just had to get our egos out of the way.”

“There’s only enough space on this team for Sasha’s,” Volkov jokes.

It’s a familiar refrain, but Sasha isn’t as self-centered as his image paints him and Syd isn’t as humble as people would like her to be. She’s been the first woman to break into a lot of hockey leagues. It takes a healthy dose of self-confidence to do that. And, sometimes, in shielding herself against attacks to her worth and skill, she develops calluses that come across as conceited.

“Sasha’s confidence is good for the team,” she says. “He believes in us when we need it.”

And that’s what makes them such an effective team. When Sasha doubts, it’s himself he loses faith in. He pours his belief into the team, fueling them to succeed where he thinks he can’t. When Syd doubts, she loses faith in the team, falling back on herself and her own skill. Together, they lead better than they would apart. She’s interested to see how Zhenya will fit in.

“Right now, we need it,” Volkov says. “If we keep this up then we’ll doom our season in the first month.”

“Then let’s fix it. We’ll work on tip-ins. If we plant you in front of the net then at worst you’ll be a screen and at best you’ll be able to deflect some pucks.”

“How come  _ I’m _ the net-front presence?”

“Because I’m the one who battles to keep possession. Then I lurk.” She grins and pats his helmet. “I’ll make you some ice bags for your bruises after our next game.”

“I remember when you were nice to me,” he grumbles.

“I don’t. Must have been a translation issue.”

#

They string together enough wins to shut everyone up then promptly drop three in a row. There’s calls to replace Sasha as captain and send Sydney to Pittsburgh. There’s even handwringing over whether or not they’ll make the playoffs.

Sydney and Sasha don’t turn on each other this time. He comes to practice half an hour early with her and she stops trying to stay for an extra two hours.

“We’re better than this,” Sydney says after a sloppy 4-3 win.

They’re at a bar celebrating which makes her twitchy, because she wants to be on the ice improving. She should be watching game tape or talking strategy with the coaches. She feels as if she isn’t living up to the expectations of her A.

Khtey, the only one who can hear her, rolls his eyes. “Kid--”

“I’m not a kid,” she grumbles.

“If you whine then I call you kid.” He passes her a shot. “You’ve been spoiled; two Cups in three years. Sometimes, we suck. We’ll battle out of it. We always do.”

But she doesn’t  _ want _ to lose. And she doesn’t want to be patient. She’d rather be good  _ now _ . Shit, she  _ is _ whining. She knocks back the shot then another. She’d rather be drunk then melancholy. When she reaches for a third, though, Khtey stops her.

“We’ll be carrying you home at this rate.”

“I can hold my alcohol,” she protests, but she accepts the glass of water he slides her instead. “You’re boring, you know that?”

“A couple years ago I would have punched you for saying that.”

“I almost punched you in my first season. I would’ve if Volkov hadn’t stopped me.” Maybe he’s right and she’s too drunk, because she’s being more honest than she normally would be. “I didn’t like you very much and you didn’t like me either. But now we’re friends.”

“Fucking hell.” Khtey downs the shot he took from her. “I need to be more drunk if we’re going to do this.”

“I need to be drunker too.”

“You absolutely do not.” He intercepts the drink Volkov offers her.

“I thought we were friends. Friends share. It’s the Russian way. I’m a good Russian. That’s why they’ve let me stay for so long.”

“I refuse to be your babysitter tonight.” Khtey stands up. “Sasha, come be responsible.”

“Told you, not a kid,” Syd says. “Don’t need a babysitter.”

Khtey ignores her so she sneaks another drink. It takes some shuffling, but Khtey and Sasha switch places. This is actually better, because Sasha lets her cuddle him. She pats his chest, glad that he’s strong and solid and willing to help prop her up. Khtey might’ve been right to cut her off.

Sasha doesn’t seem to mind being stuck in the booth with her instead of dancing. They’re part of the first wave to leave, but they break off from the group as soon as they’re out of the club.

“Can we call Zhenya when we get home?” she asks. “I miss him.”

Sasha hugs her even closer. “Of course.”

#

Syd’s hangover is mostly gone when she shows up to practice. 

Khtey, by his own stall and halfway dressed, smirks at her.

“Fuck off,” she grumbles.

“But Gretzka, we’re  _ friends _ .”

She flips him off which only makes him laugh harder.

#

They fly to Magnitogorsk to play a red hot team led by their red hot captain. They visit Zhenya before the game, and he looks awfully melancholy for a guy leading the league in points.

“They’ve stopped talking about next year,” Zhenya says as he ushers them into his bedroom. “This is your home, Zhenya, they say. Look at the success you’ve brought to this city. We’ll be a dynasty because of you.” He ducks his head. “I want to do well, but every win feels like another bar in the cage.”

“If you want to go then they can’t keep you,” Sydney says.

“ _ If? _ ” Zhenya puffs up, ready for a fight, but he deflates just as quickly. “No more hockey talk. I need a break.”

“No hockey?” Sasha smiles, teasing. “However will we pass the time?”

Zhenya cracks a smile, but he doesn’t relax until Sydney kisses him.

#

Sasha doesn’t talk about it much, but the rivalry the RSL tries to force between him and Zhenya is hard for him, especially this year when he seems to fall short in every comparison. Maybe that’s what sparks such a dominant performance. They take on the top team in the league and brutally dismantle them. Syd’s line rides at something like 80% possession. Magnitogorsk can’t do anything because they never have the puck.

It’s a two-point night for Sasha, but his game was so much bigger than that. He was a threat every time he stepped on the ice. On the rare occasion they didn’t have the puck, he laid big hits and played tough defense. He was active and loud, Sydney able to find him by voice alone. She had more no-look passes this game than any other. Sasha even scored a beauty of a goal off one of them.

The locker room is jubilant afterwards. Everyone knows this game was a test, and they destroyed it.

“Whatever you did to Malkin before the game, keep it up,” Lukinov tells Syd.

The locker room falls quiet as Sasha’s smile slips from his face. Syd’s heart clenches, thinking about how Zhenya’s kisses, as frantic as his touches, gentled and calmed the longer they were with him. Sasha and Zhenya flipped a coin to see who would go down on her first then Zhenya tackled him when he didn’t like the result. They wrestled until they almost forgot what started their wrestling match.

She knows Lukinov doesn’t know what they did at Zhenya’s--and she wants to keep it that way--but it twists her stomach to think about using their relationship to get an edge in a hockey game.

Sasha recovers first, laughing as he claps Lukinov on the back. “We had lunch. I can probably do that again. Gretzka!”

“I’m not your secretary,” she says, playing along. “Schedule your own lunch.”

“Ooh,” the locker room choruses.

#

They limp their way into the playoffs. A concerted push at the end of the season lets them squeak into the seventh place spot which means they don’t have to face top-seeded Magnitogorsk in the first round.

St. Petersburg isn’t a much better option, but at least she isn’t playing Zhenya in the first round.

The locker room is quiet ahead of their first postseason practice. They know they haven’t played well enough this season. They know too that it’s a steep climb to the finals from where they are.

Sasha stands up and all their eyes are drawn to him. “Here we are. This hasn’t been an easy season, but all we needed was a chance. We’re here now, and we play hard. We show them the team we really are.”

“We make St. Petersburg’s path hell,” Sydney adds. “They’re the second seed and think it means an easy path to the finals. They don’t make it through us.”

Khtey is the next to speak. A couple of the other veterans share a few words. By the time they troop out to the ice they’re ready for practice and the first round of the playoffs.

#

They sweep St. Petersburg, leaving a stunned team frozen in front of a stunned crowd when Game 3 ends.

It’s exactly the statement series they need, a boost to their confidence and a message to the rest of the League; they’re here and ready to win.

The second round is another easy victory, and suddenly Moscow is lauded as a Cinderella story, the underdog team out to win it all. It’s a stupid storyline, because they’re the defending champs. How much of an underdog can they really be?

But the media, and the fans, enjoy a good narrative. It must feel like their birthday when Magnitogorsk emerges as the victor in their series. For the first time in the Malkin-Ovechkin era, their two teams will face each other in the playoffs. In the  _ Finals _ .

It’s Sasha against Zhenya, and pictures pop up everywhere, the two of them in their uniforms, the K proud on their chest, as they scowl at the cameras. Sydney’s glanced over by the analysts. Everything is focused on the Russian showdown and while normally she enjoys being at the forefront of things, she doesn't mind slipping into the background this time.

It doesn’t ease the pressure, the expectations she sets for herself are higher than any someone else could, but it does give her some room to breathe.

“We know how to win,” Khtey reminds her. It’s his turn to haul her off the ice after she’s tried to sneak extra practice in. “We did it last year.”

“I know.” What she doesn’t say is this:  _ I’m done after this season. I want to leave Russia on a high note. WIll you hate me when I go? _

“Play hockey.” Khtey claps her on the shoulder. “I heard you’re good at it.”

She is and they do win, beating Magnitogorsk in their city in front of their own fans. They never manage to shut them up, though. It’s the playoffs and they believe in their team.

They lose the next game then win the one after that. Then they lose. Now everything comes down to Game 5. Sydney’s not sure it could’ve happened any other way.

#

Magnitogorsk scores on the first shift. No,  _ Zhenya  _ does. It’s a gorgeous, unassisted goal that brings the stadium to their feet. Sydney pops her mouth guard in. She has work to do.

It’s 0-3 headed into the first intermission.

Coach looks to Sasha and Syd. “Fix this.”

Sydney wins the faceoff to open the second. She uses one of the tricks Datsyuk taught her, and Zhenya curses as Sasha takes off down the ice. She blows past Zhenya and slaps her stick on the ice. Sasha passes to her. The defense turns and she passes back. This time they aren’t quick enough and Sasha scores.

Syd doesn’t leap on him, because there’s still a long way to go, but it’s a start.

Ten minutes later, she scores.

When Sasha’s power play goal ties the game, she throws herself into his arms. “We fix,” she says.

#

It isn’t enough.

Zhenya scores early in the third. It’s almost inevitable when, three minutes later, he completes his hat trick. The fans are thunderous, cheering and tossing hats for their captain. The building never quiets.

And Moscow never finds its rhythm again.

The game ends 3-5.

She’s quiet in the handshake line. Her smile for Zhenya is more like a grimace. In a few days, maybe, she’ll be happy for him. Right now, she’s too busy being sad for herself.

#

Locker room cleanout is tougher than she thought it would be. She knows she isn’t subtle, the way she lingers over her team gear. Khtey hugs her extra long before he leaves. Rabinovich too. Tikov looks around, confused. That’s what almost breaks her.

“I’ll see you soon,” she tells him. “You’re coming to Worlds, right?”

It’s in Moscow this year, because of course it is. The last time she’ll play in this city will be in Canadian colors. It’s fitting.

“Can I talk to you when you’re Canadian?”

Sydney laughs. “I’m Canadian right now.” But she knows what he’s asking so she musses up his hair. “I’ll say hi when I see you.”

#

By the time Zhenya flies in for Worlds, she’s able to hug him. She can’t quite dredge up a congratulations but he doesn’t push for one. Instead, the three of them go to dinner together.

“I’ve booked you tickets for St. Thomas,” she says as she picks through their appetizer platter for what she wants. “You fly out three days after Worlds.”

“St. Thomas?” Sasha asks.

“Only us?” Zhenya asks.

_ You’ll be out of the country when we find out if Lemieux made the trade. No one will be able to trap you here.  _ “So you better win a medal, that way you can go on a celebratory vacation. There’s a spa so you can sit in the sauna as long as you like.”

“Where will you be?” Zhenya presses.

“It wouldn’t look good for the three of us to fly out together.” She doesn’t think that anyone would try to confiscate Zhenya or Sasha’s passport but Velichkin has been quite determined to keep Zhenya playing for Magnitogorsk. “I’ll meet you there. I have to go shopping for new bathing suits.”

Zhenya and Sasha both perk up.

Typical.

#

Sydney takes Fleury to lunch once he’s in Moscow. He seems wary of the invitation, even more so when Webs tries to invite himself along and Syd shuts him down.

“First picks by the Penguins only,” Bergeron says. He links his arm through Webs’s. “We’ll have to brave the streets on our own.”

“It isn’t that scary,” Sydney says. Then, guiltily, “I can give you some recommendations.”

“You’re good, Croz,” Webs promises. “Besides, you owe Flower like a million dinners.”

Guilt weighs even heavier on her. Bergy punches Webs’s shoulder, and Syd makes her escape with Fleury. She waits until they’re on the street and away from nosy NHL players to say, “I am sorry. I’ll be there this season, though. I don’t know when I’m making the announcement yet but I’ll be there in the fall.”

Fleury shrugs. “There are rumors that we’re trading Jordy. We’ll still be weak down the middle. And weak in net.”

“Fuck Therriern.” She wants to punch the coach for putting such a look of utter dejection on Fleury’s face. “You’re a good goalie. You’re going to be a franchise player for the Pens.”

He shrugs and Syd has to abandon her argument as she leads him into Basha’s and their conversation is consumed by the easy chatter of the shop. She waves to the waitress and calls out a greeting to the busboys as she shepherds Fleury to her favorite booth. He raises his eyebrows at they sit. “I take it you’re a regular here?”

Basha takes that as her cue to show up and snap her fingers until Sydney stands and hugs her. They make small talk until Basha’s attention zeroes in on Fleury. She pinches his side then scolds him and Sydney laughs.

“You’re too skinny,” she translates.

“I won’t turn down good food.” Fleury looks confused as Basha heads back to the kitchen. “No menus here?”

“Not for me.”

Fleury raises his eyebrows again but lets it be.

When their food comes out, plate after plate of it. Fleury’s mouth drops open. “ _ Dude _ .”

“They like me here,” she says.

He stares at the spread between them. “I can see that.”

They dive in, and she’s pleased to see him not only enjoy the Russian food but enthusiastically take seconds as well. Basha is so thrilled that when she comes over, she clasps his face between her hands and chatters away at him. At the end of her speech, she smacks a kiss to his forehead and walks away.

“Uh,” Fleury says.

“She likes you.” Sydney grins. “Now, do we try to finish this or do we bring some back for Webs and Bergy?”

#

The next day, Syd’s kicking ass at ping pong when a couple of the Team Canada guys trickle in. Fleury hands her a box with cake inside. Her face lights up. “You went back?”

“Basha was very sad that you didn’t come. She had her nephew translate.”

“Dmitry? Yeah, he’s cool.”

“Dmitry?” Webs waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Syd says. Then she tosses him one of the spare ping pong paddles. “Partner?”

“Where’s your team?” Bergy asks as he joins Carter on the other side.

“Unpacking. I’m giving them a tour later. You can come if you want. Moscow’s a beautiful city.”

“After we win,” Webs says. “Victory tour.”

“Basha probably won’t give us extra food after we beat Russia,” Fleury says.

Bergy smacks both of them with his ping pong paddle.

#

Syd’s first game is against Switzerland. Canada is technically the home team and the Russian crowd happily boos each of her teammates. Then, as the announcer says, “And number 87,” the cheers drown out the rest of her introduction. Stunned, she’s a beat slower than usual. She steps off her line and raises her hand, a salute to everyone cheering for her.

Then she gives them a show.

It’s a 12-2 blowout with an even-strength hat trick for Syd in only two periods. The fans chant  _ Encore _ after her third goal then  _ Play her more _ once Coach benches her. It brings a smile to her face as she watches her teammates zip around the ice.

#

Some people argue that the women shouldn’t play every year because of blowouts like Canada’s opener. Sydney disagrees. Even in the past two years, programs are getting stronger. Finland’s forwards are learning to score the goals their goalie deserves. Sweden’s defense has improved by leaps and bounds. Yearly international competitions encourage countries to invest in their women’s programs. And giving women a chance to play together will make the Olympic teams better.

Still, there’s no denying that, at this point in time, the big game is Canada and the United States. 

And they don’t disappoint. 

It’s a physical game from puck drop. There are elbows and slashes, everything they can get away with and a few things they can’t. Each team tallies a power play goal in the first. In the second, Canada scores a shorty which is negated by the Americans on the very next shift.

The goalies and defense lock the third period down, and they go to overtime tied 2-2.

Sydney turns her stick over in her hands as she looks out at the crowd.  _ One last time, _ she thinks and goes over the boards for her shift.

She battles for the puck and whacks a few ankles along the way. She’s slashed in turn, nothing egregious enough to be called in OT. She frees the puck for Agosta. She skates around the back of the net, dividing the defense’s attention. She’s already in her favorite spot, right off the net, so she drifts higher.

Agosta passes back to her. Sydney winds up her shot and fires. The puck cracks off her stick and shoots past two defenders. Ouellette twists out of the way. The goalie doesn’t react in time.

Goal.

The stadium is stunned, silent until the building explodes with noise.

Agosta tackles her. Ouellette jumps on top of them. Her whole team swarms, shouting and swearing and jubilant. The crowd’s noise settles into something solid.

It’s the Dynamo Cheer.

She looks up at the Jumbotron to see the replay of her shot. She’s at the dot and rifles off a shot that looks nothing like her and everything like Sasha.

#

The Canada-Russia final on the men’s side is  _ brutal _ . It’s 1-0 off a power play goal from Sasha that mirrored her game winner. The Russians cling to their lead, fending off two power plays then an even strength assault.

Late in the second, Webs slams into Sasha. Sasha hits the boards and doesn’t get up. Syd’s gasp is too loud, surrounded as she is by her Canadian teammates.

“It isn’t like you’ll be playing together next season,” someone says.

Sasha stumbles to his skates. He goes to the bench, favoring his shoulder, and they send him straight down the tunnel.

_ Fuck. _

#

The Canadians tie the game before the period ends.

Sydney itches to go down to the trainer’s room even though there isn’t anything she can do.

#

When the teams take the ice for the third, Canada looks determined. Zhenya looks  _ pissed _ , but his rage is channeled into something lethal. He wins faceoffs and board battles, back checks with single-minded focus, and the crowd swells with noise at every good play he makes.

There’s something building, with every pass and every shot, something that the crowd responds to. Syd leans forward in her seat. Zhenya’s hockey is always good, but today it’s extraordinary. He lifts Bergeron’s stick to steal the puck then races down the ice.

He fights off checks and Canada’s own attempts at a stick lift. He snaps the puck in the net and raises his arms as the stadium loses any cool they might have had.

“Shit,” Agosta says.

Zhenya turns towards the athlete’s section. It isn’t subtle, but that isn’t how her Zhenya does things. With a triumphant grin, he turns back to his teammates.

“Well,” Ouellette says.

“We could put a bag over her head?” Poulin suggests with a grin. 

“He already knows I’m here,” Syd says. “And he likes to show off.”

“I would be impressed if it wasn’t our team he was playing.” Agosta slowly turns to Syd. “You’re not…”

Syd schools her face into something approaching innocent. “I’m not what?”  _ Going to fuck him for that goal later? _ The lift of her eyebrows dares Agosta to finish her question.

“Is he leaving Russia with you?” Agosta asks instead.

“That’s his decision, not mine.”

“So you don’t know?” Piper asks.

Agosta scoffs. “That’s not what she said.”

“I also didn’t say that  _ I’m _ leaving,” Sydney points out.

“After being here I can see why. They love you in Moscow.”

“They could love you in Pittsburgh.”

She hopes they will. But for now, she turns her attention back to the ice. Zhenya bullies his way to the net and almost scores a second goal.

“Maybe Webs should take  _ him _ out,” someone grumbles.

Syd clutches at the necklace he gave her at the draft.

#

Russia wins 2-1, and they can still hear the fans even after they’ve left the stadium. Syd returns to the hotel with her teammates, but Agosta doesn’t look surprised when Syd changes in preparation of heading back out.

“I hope Ovechkin’s okay,” she says. She looks like she swallowed a lemon but she sounds genuine.

“I’ll pick him up some flowers or something.”

“I think he’d rather just have you.”

Sydney flushes. “I--we--”

“Save it,” Agosta says, her tone gentle now. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Whatever you’re doing--or not doing--it’s your business.”

“Thank you.”

“Still, if you don’t invite me to the wedding then I’ll be pissed.”

Sydney laughs as she tucks her phone and her wallet into her pockets.

#

She slips into Team Russia’s after party and no one blinks an eye. Her Dynamo teammates hand her shots and congratulate her on her win. Zhenya, holding court with his teammates, can’t slip away, but he shoots her a filthy grin, full of promise. She pockets it as a promise for later and weaves through the crowd until she finds Sasha. 

His arm’s in a sling, but he soothes Syd’s worry by saying, “It’s precautionary. They gave me some drugs. I’m supposed to rest, but it’s nothing that requires surgery, or even a lot of time off.”

“Good.” Since Sasha isn’t drinking she hands her shots off to Likov, who scowls at her then knocks them back as if he thinks she was going to demand he return them.

“I’ll be swimming with Zhenya and the sharks in no time,” Sasha says.

Likov hovers. “Sharks?”

“We’re going on vacation,” Sasha says. His words slur as if his drugs are kicking in. “Me, Zhenya, and beaches full of hot chicks.”

Likov looks over at Syd.

“I’m going home,” she says.

“I’ll send you a seashell,” Sasha promises.

She laughs and loops his uninjured arm over her shoulders to help support him. “Let’s find somewhere for you to sit.”

“Or I could lie down.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“They gave you the really good drugs then,” Sydney says. She guides him to the booths and eases him into an empty one. He pulls her down with him and she goes. He smells like cologne and champagne. Underneath is sweat, like he hasn’t had a proper shower.

“You and Zhenya are going on vacation?” Gonch sits across from them.

“I am. Sydney isn’t invited. And people said that Zhenya and I don’t like each other.” Sasha scoffs but there’s something dark lurking in his gaze as if people  _ have _ been saying that.

“People are stupid. You know this.” Gonch looks like he has more to say but all he adds is, “It will be good for you to get away.”

Sydney wonders if he’s guessed the true reason they’re taking an international vacation right before the draft. 

“A busted shoulder probably drops my trade value,” Sasha says. “That’s good, right?”

“Your shoulder isn’t busted. You’ll be fine after some rest. The spa resort won’t hurt either.”

“It’ll be better once you’re with us.”

Sydney winces and is grateful that Gonch is the only person in hearing distance. At Sasha’s confession he raises his eyebrows.

“Oops,” Sasha says. “That’s supposed to be a secret.”

Gonch’s eyebrows climb even higher.

“I think it’s time for Sasha to go to bed,” Syd decides.

“I’ll help you.”

Between the two of them they extricate Sasha from the booth and bring him to the hotel. She tucks him into bed, surrounding him with enough pillows that he won’t jar his shoulder.

“Last Worlds was better,” Sasha mumbles.

“You’ll celebrate again,” Syd promises. She lingers for a moment at Sasha’s bedside, and Gonch turns his back. Embarrassed but grateful, she leans down to press a kiss to Sasha’s brow. “Sleep well.”

She sits on the other bed, Zhenya’s, and Gonch joins her.

“I don’t want to leave him alone,” Sydney says. “At least until he falls asleep.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” It sounds ominous and doesn’t get better when he adds, “You have a busy summer planned?”

“Tomorrow I fly home.”

“Then?”

She shrugs as if she doesn’t have plans and back-up plans, a dozen hopes pinned on one upcoming moment. “Tell me about Pittsburgh. How’s Therrien?”

Gonchar opens his mouth then hesitates.

“I’ve made my decision,” she promises. “You won’t sway me either way.”

“He has a system,” Gonchar says. “Either you fit into it or you play like shit. It hasn’t been a problem, because we haven’t had the players for it to matter.”

“He doesn’t like Fleury.”

“We’ve lost a lot of games.”

“Those aren’t all on him.” She looks over at Gonch, assessing. “Do you like him?” Seeing the way he shifts, uncomfortable, she amends her question. “Do you respect him?”

“No.”

“Okay then.”

“What are you planning?”

Behind them, Sasha snores softly, giving into sleep. Sydney stands up. “You should get back to the party. You have a win to celebrate.”

Gonchar stares her down, a dozen questions in his gaze. Instead of asking even one of them, he holds the door open so they can leave.

#

Sydney flies home long enough to see her family and buy two new bathing suits then she meets up with Sasha and Zhenya in St. Thomas. Sasha’s lost his sling and he’s already tanning. Zhenya’s nose and shoulders are pink, but he’ll tan soon enough.

“Hey,” she says.

Zhenya pulls her in for a hug and doesn’t let go for a very long time.

#

They sunbathe on the beach and splash in the waves and dress up so they can go out to dinner. No one recognizes them so they grow daring, holding hands at dinner and afterwards, when they walk along the sand. 

And when the time comes, they pile on the California King bed, Sasha tucked between them as they watch the draft. Patrick Kane, an American winger, is taken first overall by the Blackhawks. The Pens use the second pick to draft James van Riemsdyk, another American winger.

“He’s big,” Syd says. “Good net-front presence.” She studies Pittsburgh’s management as she searches for some hint or clue of what will happen.

The next few picks pass. She fidgets with the hem of her t-shirt, stretching it out. Just before the 11th pick, there’s a trade announcement. Sydney sits up straighter.

“Syd?” Zhenya asks.

She turns the volume up on the TV as they detail the trade between Pittsburgh and Carolina. Jordan Staal and Pittsburgh’s second round pick are the two big pieces on the Penguins end. They get Carolina’s first round pick, the upcoming eleventh selection. There’s a few other things then, almost as an afterthought, the rights to Alexander Ovechkin.

None of them move.

Syd doesn’t think she even breathes.

Pittsburgh drafts Brandon Sutter and the analysts immediately begin to dissect the trade.

“Holy shit,” Syd finally says. “He did it. Mario did it.” She can’t stay still. She rolls off the bed and paces a few times. When she looks back at the TV they’re showing the return for both sides. Sasha’s name is still there, at the bottom, as if he isn’t the most important piece.

She looks at her boys, tangled together on the bed. “It’s time to make a decision.” She shoves down her hopes and dreams before they can spiral out of control. “Do you want to play for the Pittsburgh Penguins?”

“Yes,” Zhenya answers.

“I want to play with you,” Sasha says. “Both of you.”

“Okay.” A wide smile breaks across Sydney’s face. “Okay, let’s do this.”

#

She leaves St. Thomas first, flying to Toronto to do some Canadian media.

“I’m proud to be a Pittsburgh Penguin,” she says.

“This is some timing. Does it have anything to do with Pittsburgh acquiring your Dynamo teammate? Will Alexander Ovechkin be in the black and gold this season?”

“It has everything to do with a promise.” Syd smiles as Elliotte Friedman leans in. “Last year I promised Marc-Andre Fleury that I was coming over. He’s held this franchise together, anchoring it in Pittsburgh so I would have a team to come home to. It was a Herculean effort, a burden he never should’ve had to bear on his own. I know it took me two years to be ready, but I’m here now, and I look forward to playing with him.

#

Therrien is fired between her interview and her plane touching down in Pittsburgh. Joel Quenneville is named the new head coach of the Penguins and she meets him when she meets with the rest of the management. 

“Well,” Mario says with a fond smile. “You’ve caused quite the stir.”

“That’s why you wanted me.”

“Your possession numbers don’t hurt,” Quenneville says.

“What about the others?” Craig Patrick asks. “No one’s heard from Malkin or Ovechkin since Worlds.”

“Gonch told me they went on vacation,” Mario says. “Reports out of Russia say the same, but no one knows where they went.”

“Probably some place warm. Sasha likes the beach and Zhenya enjoys swimming with wildlife that could kill him. They might not have even watched the draft.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Quenneville says.

Sydney shrugs. “I don’t know everything about them.”

Mario, fighting a smile, says, “I’d like to introduce you to our PR team. We have a franchise to breathe new life into.”

#

Syd goes on a media blitz to drum up support for the fast approaching season. She teams up with Mario and Flower and a couple of the other guys. She does a late night tour and talks about how excited she is to play hockey in Pittsburgh. She puts on an oversized jersey and shoots literal biscuits at Jimmy Fallon who playfully grumbles about how he should have tried harder to get Lundqvist on the show too.

The jersey has her number, 87, on it and also a C. She does another series of interviews about how she’s excited about the opportunity and looking forward to rewarding Pittsburgh’s faith in her.

When she returns home to Pittsburgh, she stays with Mario and his family. 

“You’re welcome to stay the whole season,” Nathalie says.

“It’s a kind offer,” Sydney says. “Can I think on it?”

#

Three days later, she gets a phone call. 

“We’re here,” Sasha says.

She stops in the middle of her workout and drives her rental to the Pittsburgh airport. There, in baggage claim, tanned and  _ happy _ , are her boys. 

She flings herself at them. Zhenya catches her and they stumble into Sasha. It turns into a three-way hug that doesn’t last nearly long enough, but the airport isn’t the place for the reunion she wants.

“Let’s go to Mario’s,” she says. “I’ve started looking up real estate listings. They don’t have dorms here. We could live in a house just the three of us.”

“Closed doors?” Sasha teases.

“We could even leave them all open.”

“Food,” Zhenya says. “Then we can plan our future.”

Syd pulls them close as they head into the parking lot. She can’t wait to see what they’ll do together.


End file.
